


or Let me Burn (The Second Summer)

by Shay_Fae



Series: Love me with the Lights off [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Love, First Time, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-15 11:06:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 28,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/848802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shay_Fae/pseuds/Shay_Fae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John have two months together at Sherlock's country house before John is shipped off to Afghanistan. </p><p>They intend to make them count.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hug me Tighter

**Author's Note:**

> Hello my lovelies! Here we go again! You know what they say, the summer is forever :)

John stepped out of the car onto the gravel in front of the Holmes’ country estate and was hit full on in the face by the thick summer air before he suddenly found himself on the floor.

“John!” Sherlock tackled him, and this was the proper way to great someone, all arms and hair and flailing limbs.

“Oh Sherlock,” John laughed, reaching around to hug the younger boy, vaguely aware of their mothers laughing off to the side.

“It’s clear the boys missed each other,” Victoria smirked to Cynthia Watson.

John detached himself from Sherlock in time to see Harry Watson jump out of the back of the silver Chevy in white shorts and a Metallica tee, helped down by Mycroft in his usual tailored suit, the two of them making an odd pair.

“John, I have your room all set up. Mummy was going to give you the _purple_ comforter, clearly inferior. Besides, I know blue is your favorite color…“ Sherlock all but rambled as John helped pull him up.

“Sherlock, breathe. We have a whole summer,” John promised and both boys could hear the unsaid promise of _I’m leaving to Afghanistan in two months._ But now was hardly the time for that.

“I have everything planned out,” Sherlock offered, taking John’s bags, and John couldn’t help but flash back to one year prior, following a boy he didn’t particularly like into a mansion that blew his mind. The house was just as big but the boy was a different story entirely.

“I was thinking we could go swimming, once you’re settled in,” Sherlock drolled on, walking up the steps to the boys’ connecting rooms. “And then perhaps tomorrow we could drive back up to the mountain range. I have proper camping gear now, we could-“

“Sherlock,” John stopped him and Sherlock looked up, dropping John’s bags on the floor of John’s room. The second they hit the floor, John had crossed the distance between them and pulled Sherlock into a searing kiss.

Usually their kisses were soft and calm, neither one rushing, neither one pushing. This kiss was desperate, the kiss of two boys denied each other for months. John’s hand went up to wrap itself in Sherlock’s black curls, and his other hand found the younger boy’s waist, desperately trying to pull them even closer.

Sherlock gasped as John bit his lower lip, worrying away at it a moment before capturing his mouth again, tongue darting in to reclaim lost territory. John pulled Sherlock’s tongue into his own mouth, sucking on it gently and Sherlock moaned embarrassingly loud, realizing suddenly the bedroom door was still open.

“John-“ Sherlock tried to warn him but he was cut off as John’s mouth found his again, his fingers digging deep into Sherlock’s scalp, leaving trails of fire and sending shivers of pleasure down Sherlock’s spine.

“God, I missed you so much,” John moaned against Sherlock’s mouth and Sherlock could have died, right then and there.

“I missed-“ Sherlock tried but he suddenly couldn’t put words together as John’s breath ghosted against his neck.

“Wonder if this still works,” John murmured against his skin and then his teeth were at the base of Sherlock’s jaw, the piece of skin that made Sherlock’s legs turn to water and he nipped at it. Sherlock groaned and John laughed underneath him, working at the skin until it bloomed red and Sherlock knew it would be purple tomorrow and he couldn’t have been happier.

John let go and rested his head against the taller boy’s shoulder and breathed deeply, smiling.

“Hey gorgeous,” he said, looking up and Sherlock didn’t know what on Earth he’d done to deserve this boy.

“Hi,” he managed, and John laughed softly against his chest.

“Come on, we should get back downstairs,” John advised. “Before your mum thinks we’ve run off an eloped.”

                                                                ***

Dinner was a loud affair, especially for the Holmes household. Victoria Holmes was laying into John, asking him about his college plans.

“So this army business, you’re getting certified as a doctor while you’re there?” she asked, sipping at her drink.

“It’s a dual program,” John tried to explain, as Sherlock laced his fingers through John’s under the table. The older boy squeezed back with a smile and went on. “It’s like my residency, only for much longer.”

“Oh wonderful,” Victoria smiled. “We must throw you a going-away party at the end of August.”

“Vivi, it’s barely July,” Cynthia laughed, reminding the whole table she was the only person in quite possibly the world who could call Victoria Holmes _Vivi_ and get away with it.

“You can never start party planning too early,” Victoria advised, before turning her attentions to the other end of the table. “Harry, how are you?”

Harry looked up from where she was engaged in a conversation with Mycroft. “Very well ma’am, thank you.”

“You are in Uni, yes?” Victoria asked.

“Last year,” Harry smiled.

“Ah yes, just a year younger than my Mycroft,” Victoria nodded. “What are your plans for after Uni? Mycroft has been offered a very prestigious position in the British government you know.”

Harry nodded but Cynthia’s eyes widened. “How marvelous Mycroft! And so young too.”

“They made him take his finals twice because they were so sure he cheated the first time around,” Sherlock whispered to John and John held in a laugh at the thought of Mycroft taking his finals in minutes, handing them off with no less than a sneer.

“Is there a woman in your life Mycroft?” Cynthia asked and John could see Mycroft’s hands clench imperceptibly under the table.

“Not yet, but there’s no doubt my Mycroft will marry a lovely woman and continue the Holmes family, isn’t that so?” Victoria smiled and Mycroft smiled back, the picture of the perfect son.

“I should be so lucky Mummy,” he said through a grin and John could see Harry eyeing him carefully.

“Well, at least two of our boys are taken care of,” Cynthia smiled down the table at John and Sherlock and the two teens blushed in unison.

“Tea?” Victoria asked in lieu of an answer and that was the end of that.

They were leaving the table when John finally asked Sherlock in a whisper,

“Does your Mum not like us together?”

Sherlock paused a moment before answering. “She’s conflicted. Such… relationships as ours are frowned upon in her circles.”

“She invited us back, I guess she can’t disapprove of me that much,” John offered and Sherlock shook his head lightly.

“She wants me to be happy,” he said and John reached out to squeeze his hand.

“Are you happy?” he asked and Sherlock shot him his ever-suffering-vexed-by-mere-mortals look.

“Deliriously,” he promised and the two boys raced upstairs.

                                                                       ***

John was on his way to the bathroom when he passed by what he knew was Harry’s room and stopped at the vicious tones echoing from the door. _A good person wouldn’t stop and listen_ he thought and then decided to screw it and leaned in to hear better.

“-and after everything you said to me last year Mycroft! You held my hand while I came out, why can’t you do it too?” Harry’s voice trembled.

“It’s different for me Harry, you have to understand,” Mycroft’s voice was pleading and John heard a rustle and he could suddenly picture the scene, Harry and Mycroft on Harry’s bed, sitting across from each other, as Mycroft reached out to take Harry’s hands.

“You told me there was no point in being honest with myself if it made me ashamed of who I was. What are you going to do Mycroft, when she starts introducing you to women? Are you just going to tell Greg, ‘sorry love, can’t fuck you tonight, my mummy set me up on a blind date with some politician’s daughter from Sweden?’” Harry yelled.

“Harry please-“ Mycroft murmured and John had heard enough. He spun around and made his way back to Sherlock’s room where he found him coaxing two mice back into a cage.

“Oh John,” he smiled, a mouse in each hand. “Perfect. I was just about to put my experiment away.”

“Put it away, now,” John said, surprised at how low his voice came out and Sherlock startled. He gently placed the mice back in their cage and the second the door locked behind them, Sherlock found himself sprawled on the bed, John looming down on top of him.

“Promise me,” he growled and Sherlock’s eyes widened, “promise me that no matter what your mother says, no matter what anyone says, you will never leave me for some girl with a passport to sixteen different countries and enough blue blood to run sour.”

“John, you’re scaring me,” Sherlock whimpered and then John’s knee came up to nestle between Sherlock’s legs and Sherlock was profoundly _not_ scared anymore.

“Promise,” John said, his hands pressing down roughly on Sherlock’s shoulders.

“I promise,” he choked out and he felt John visibly relax on top of him.

“I love you,” he sighed before he lowered him mouth down against Sherlock’s, starting slow. They kissed for a minute before John’s tongue came out to flick against Sherlock’s bottom lip and Sherlock dutifully opened, letting John tongue in to slowly explore the younger boy’s mouth, tracing teeth and gums before finally coming out to meet Sherlock’s tongue in a dizzying embrace that had Sherlock moaning against John’s mouth and twisting shamelessly against John’s offered knee.

“Woah, down boy,” John murmured, relaxed by the kiss. He broke off from Sherlock’s mouth and the younger boy whimpered at the loss of contact before John’s mouth was back, kissing up the side of his jaw before coming up to ear, licking the shell before biting down on the soft lobe and Sherlock was sure he’d never moaned so loud, unmuffled by John’s usually present mouth.

“The sounds you make,” John whispered, dragging his ear between his teeth as Sherlock tried pitifully to stay silent. “You have no idea how utterly _sexy_ they are.”

“I-I-“ Sherlock stammered and then John was above him again.

“Shush,” he winked and Sherlock melted against the sheet. “No talking. Only moans.”

And with that his mouth crashed back down on Sherlock’s and the younger boy was more than happy to comply, moaning shamelessly into John’s open mouth.

John was suddenly aware of something _hard_ pressing into his legs and he broke the kiss to look down.

Sherlock followed his line of sight and blushed furiously, his already red and panting face turning neon. “Sorry about that,” he gasped out and John laughed.

“Don’t be,” he smiled. “Always nice to be appreciated.” And with that he went back to Sherlock’s mouth, biting down on Sherlock’s already swollen bottom lip and Sherlock whimpered. John broke off to trail kisses down Sherlock’s chest as Sherlock’s hands sought purchase in John’s curls and John stopped at the rather obvious bulge in Sherlock’s pants before resting against it and breathing in slowly.

Never in Sherlock’s life had breathing been so magically less boring.

John’s fingers worked quickly at the zip before pulling down Sherlock’s trousers and pants. He paused for a moment to smile.

“Why hello there,” he said, addressing Sherlock’s cock and the younger boy would have laughed out loud if he wasn’t so focused on reminding himself how to breathe. “I missed you too, don’t you worry.”

Sherlock had missed a thousand and one things about John and amongst them was John’s _mouth_ as it slid over him and he arched back and nearly cried.

“ _John-“_ he moaned and John took a minute to smile up at him.

“I’ve barely started love. Don’t get too worked up yet,” he advised and Sherlock bit back the millions of dirty words that swam into his mind at the sight of John Watson kneeling above him, sucking him off.

Sherlock had the good sense to pray the rest of the house wasn’t awake or at the very least very busy as he came embarrassingly loud, John’s name falling like a prayer from his lips.

“Oh dear god John, oh _fuck_ -“ Sherlock moaned like a terrible porn star and John laughed around him.

“Did the posh Sherlock Holmes just curse?” he laughed but Sherlock was so incredibly blissed out he could barely reply.

“You don’t know-“ he muttered, his hand reaching out to thread itself through John’s, “what you _do_ to me.”

“I have some idea,” he promised, crawling up to kiss Sherlock.

Sherlock turned, noticing John’s pupils were still bright and dilated. “Let me- in a minute.”

“We have time,” John laughed, curling up into the arms of the taller boy. “We have all summer.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you see that kind of smut? That's what's in store for y'all. Summer of smut and all that. Be prepared.


	2. Lie with me

They went running that night and it was like two puzzle pieces sliding perfectly back into place. Their breaths were ragged and Sherlock felt his blood pumping as he remembered how to run with John, how to stay just fast enough that John couldn’t catch up but slow enough so they’re never more than a few meters apart.

Neither was surprised as they turned down the path that led to the lake and when they reached the rocky shore, they both crashed down on the soft grass.

“I forgot how amazing this is,” John panted, struggling to sit up and lean back against a tree. “Indoor pushups are not nearly this taxing.”

“Mhm,” Sherlock agreed, not wanting to concede he was far more out of breath than John. He hadn’t been doing any sort of exercise in their months apart and he was horrified to realize he was a bit out of shape. Apparently not eating doesn’t leave many carbs to burn running.

“Come here you,” John beckoned and Sherlock crawled over so he could rest his head in John’s lap, breathing deeply. “Cor, are you winded,” John remarked and Sherlock was too tired to blush.

“You wanna take a break for a while?” John suggested but Sherlock was shaking his head, getting up.

“No, we should get back,” he choked out and John laughed.

“Look at you. I’d kiss you but I think you need to focus on breathing right now,” he pointed out, one hand reaching up to brush the sweat-soaked curls off Sherlock’s forehead.

“Preposterous,” Sherlock huffed but John kept smiling and Sherlock felt himself join in. John’s smiles were contagious. _Like tiny rainbows_ , Sherlock thought and then laughed at himself. He _was_ turning into a romantic sod. It was horrifying.

“Do you remember the names of the stars?” John asked so softly Sherlock almost missed it. “I was afraid you might have deleted it-“

“Orion,” Sherlock started, pointing upwards. “Cassiopeia, Sirius, Scorpius, the big dipper, the north star-“

John was laughing so Sherlock was sure it must have started raining until he realized the wet drops on his face _were_ John’s tears.

“Why are you crying?” Sherlock cried softly, struggling up to cup John’s face in his hands. “Did I get them wrong?”

“No,” John promised, eyes shining _oh dear god, I never knew I missed oceans so much_ , “you got them all right.”

And then John kissed him, so purely their mums could have been standing behind them. Closed-mouth and sweet, like summer rain, and when he drew back his forehead rested against Sherlock’s.

“Why’d you keep them?” John asked, fingers interlacing with Sherlock’s. “They can’t serve you any purpose.”

“You taught them to me,” Sherlock said, like that was the most obvious thing in the world, and John’s face lit up like sunlight.

“Let’s go back,” he urged, and this time they ran next to each other. Their shadows overlapped and Sherlock was more than happy to think symbolism.

                                                                ***

“I want to go camping,” Sherlock said, flopping down on John’s bed about a week after they’d arrived.

John looked up at him blearily. “Sherlock, what time is it?”

“4 am, but that’s hardly the point,” Sherlock sniffed and John groaned.

“Couldn’t we have this discussion at say, the tea table? Not my bed at 4 in the bloody morning.”

“I was excited,” Sherlock excused, starting to sense this may have been a bit not good.

John struggled up. “I know love, I know. I’d love to go camping. How bout you go back to sleep and wake me up in four hours and we’ll talk about it, okay?”

“Okay,” Sherlock nodded, getting up. A hand held him back and John smiled at him from the bed.

“You can sleep here if you want,” he reminded Sherlock. They’d slept in the same bed many times the previous summer but Sherlock had been more reserved since John had gotten here, re-testing the waters almost.

Sherlock flushed and nodded, suddenly unable to speak. John pushed aside the covers and Sherlock climbed in. The first few times they’d slept together, in the most literal sense of the word, they’d fought over who would spoon who- neither one wanting to concede dominance. Eventually they’d settled on sleeping on their backs, Sherlock’s head on John’s chest, one pair of hands interlocked.

He found their old position easily and John sighed. He felt John drift off to sleep beneath him within minutes but Sherlock’s mind was positively buzzing. John often asked him why he loathed sleep and Sherlock hadn’t been able to explain it wasn’t that he loathed it; it was that he simply couldn’t turn his mind off. He had to wait until he was wretchedly exhausted and then his body would shut his mind off for him. On normal days, like this one, his mind was reeling with new information _new smell, like peaches. Shampoo? Yes, now place the brand. Store band, obviously- where have we smelled it before… Harry_ and there was no easy way to shut it off. So he settled for dialing it down until his synapses ran as background noise and he could focus on John’s breathing, the rise and fall of his chest beneath Sherlock’s head.

Soon _too soon_ the alarm by the side of John’s bed went off and Sherlock realized he’d been cataloguing John’s breathing patterns for four hours as the morning sun had made its debut in the bedroom.

“Morning you,” John snuffled, reaching out to turn off the alarm clock.

“Did you know your breathing pattern is remarkably similar to the tempo of Saint-Saëns’s Aquarium?” Sherlock informed him and John smiled at him.

“I did not, thank you for telling me love,” and there was no sarcasm in John’s voice, the sarcasm Sherlock had grown accustomed to when he told people of the little things he noticed, not like who had cheated on who and who had killed someone but who invented marmalade and the origin of Greek letters.

Sherlock opened his mouth to offer to play John the song on his violin when the door burst open and both boys instinctively reached for the covers, despite the fact they were both respectably dressed in pajamas

“John, mum wants to know if- oh,” Harry stopped suddenly in the doorway, noticing the extra head in John’s bed. “I’ll come back later then, ya?”

Sherlock turned a brilliant shade of red and started to splutter excuses but John just laughed and climbed out of bed.

“Relax Harry, we were just sleeping,” John explained calmly, walking over to his sister.

“Yeah, and I’m the queen of England,” Harry muttered, eyeing Sherlock carefully who had by now tried to crawl as far under John’s covers as he could manage.

“Excuse me Harry, I need to get the bathroom,” John pushed his sister good-naturedly from her perch in the doorway.

“You shall address me as ‘your majesty’ from this point forward,” she ordered and John barked out a laugh as she moved aside.

“What did mum want?” John asked and the two of them moved fluidly down the hallway, talking rapidly.

Sherlock would have stayed in John’s bed another hour or day, trying desperately to compose himself and cataloguing the different smells of John’s pillow, if John hadn’t poked his head back in and asked, “Coming?”

And with that Sherlock followed John into the bathroom where they attempted to brush their teeth for twenty minutes.

“Sherlock and I want to go camping,” John announced at breakfast. Harry had, mercifully, not announced her morning discovery to the table, but it was obvious from her rapid whispers and Mycroft’s barely contained snickers that she was recanting the tale to him now.

Cynthia looked up from her toast. “That sounds lovely. You can borrow the car if you want John.”

“Where do you plan on going?” Victoria asked, her eyes never leaving the business newspaper she held between her manicured fingers. After her husband had left, Victoria had taken it upon herself to provide for her children. All of them were rich; Victoria had come from a wealthy family in its own right and still had a sizable account after her husband had taken his share of the Holmes fortune and both boys had trust funds set up by their parents years before their split. But Victoria had never wanted her family to want for anything and within six months in the stock market she had doubled her funds. Well, as she explained to her shocked accountants, she certainly hadn’t married a Holmes by being _dumb_.

“There’s a mountain range not far from here,” John explained, drinking his orange juice. “We spent a night there last summer, it was lovely.”

“So that’s why Sherlock purchased all that camping supplies,” Victoria remarked coldly and Sherlock flushed. “Very well. For how long?”

“Three days maybe,” John offered. “We’d be back by Saturday morning.”

“I love the idea,” Cynthia said cheerfully and Victoria smiled at her as Sherlock’s brain finally snapped into place. Victoria wasn’t as _cold_ as her Holmes children but she certainly wasn’t your average middle-age woman and most of her “friends” were equally rich socialite women who competed over most expensive dress. Cynthia Watson was so profoundly different from those women it took Sherlock a minute to realize Cynthia was Victoria’s John.

“Alright then. I shall have the cooks pack a cooler for you boys,” Victoria agreed and John smiled at Sherlock.

“Thank you Mummy,” Sherlock said dutifully and John bit his lip to keep from smiling at the moniker.

“Keep your mobiles with you, yes? Can’t have the second Holmes heir ripped apart by bears, can we?” Victoria tried at a joke and Sherlock laughed. They understood each other’s humor.

“Don’t worry, you would still have Mycroft,” Sherlock supplied and Mycroft looked up long enough to scowl.

“What an utter bore,” he shot at his younger brother. “I’d have to buy a whole new suit for your funeral.”

“And you’d love it,” Harry pointed out and the two of them spared each other a smile.

“It’s settled then,” Victoria clapped her hands and breakfast was over. “The boys shall go camping, Mycroft and Harry shall do god knows what and Cynthia and I will go into town for a spa day.”

Cynthia’s face lit up and Sherlock could plainly see the similarities between her and her son. They wore their hearts on their faces, their expressions so open it staggered people sometimes. He had a feeling it often staggered Victoria.

“Come on,” John urged, pulling Sherlock up. “I want to see the camping gear you bought.”

Sherlock followed him, his wrist warm in John’s grasp, and he couldn’t prove anything but he was sure he saw Harry wink at him before John had whisked him out of the dining hall and outside to the garage. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you guys getting excited for the camping episode? Because I am.
> 
> Yes, I do realize the profound lack of smut this chapter. Patience, my young grasshoppers.


	3. Swim me Deeper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I get a what what for more smut? Hells yeah.
> 
> Note on the previous chapter: not gonna lie lovelies, I did not mean to imply that Cynthia and Vivi were an... item. But construe it as you will, I take all credit, thank you, goodnight!

They packed up the car with the tent and the two sleeping bags Sherlock stuffed in the garage, complete with a cooler of food the chefs at the Holmes manor put together. John slid confidently into the driver’s seat and Sherlock settled in next to him, toeing off his shoes and placing his socked feet on the dashboard before John even started the car.

John laughed. “Don’t waste any time getting comfortable, do we,” he remarked and Sherlock glared at him.

“I need to stretch or I get uncomfortable,” he said awkwardly.

“Alright, no need to remind me how much of a giant you are,” John pointed out and Sherlock still looked put out, so John took one hand off the steering wheel and interlaced his fingers with Sherlock’s.

“Relax,” he insisted and Sherlock did, back against the leather seat, “this will be fun. I’m an expert camper.”

He was and within minutes of picking a spot towards the top of the mountain, John had the tent set up and was rolling the sleeping bags inside.

“There’s still a ton of hours before dark,” he said, looking around. Sherlock was sitting cross-legged on the roof of the car, feeling utterly useless. “Wanna go for a hike?”

“I’ve never-“ he tried to explain but John just smiled at him.

“It’s not hard Sherlock, just a lot of walking,” he assured him and Sherlock jumped down with the grace of a cat.

 _Bloody hell, how does he manage that?_ John thought, glaring at the ease with which Sherlock handled his long limbs.

“Well then,” Sherlock urged, dusting himself off. “Shall we?”

John looked down at Sherlock’s outfit for the first time, his usual pressed pants and button-down. “Perhaps we should get you in something a little more… wearable first,” John suggested but Sherlock merely crossed his arms.

“John, I’ve investigated murders in these clothes. If they’re not scared of blood and brain matter, I’m sure a little dirt won’t horrify them.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” John smirked, making a note to push Sherlock into a mud pit at the earliest convenience.

They went walking up the Southside trail, John slowing down to tell Sherlock all the names of the plants and trees. Sherlock absorbed all of it with obvious interest, for the few areas Sherlock knew nothing about he made a point to listen intently when they were being taught to him.

“I’m surprised you don’t know all this,” John remarked, showing Sherlock how to avoid a particularly poisonous plant.

“I’ve never dealt with a murderer so far who killed via shrubbery, so it never paid to learn,” Sherlock responded, noting the way the moss grew on the north side of the trees.

“Still,” John went on, finding a bright red flower, “you did do that whole memo on soil identification.”

“Perhaps I should invest more time in learning the names of plants,” Sherlock puzzled and then stopped as John reached up to put something in his hair.

Sherlock reached up with long fingers to pull out a flower.

“I thought it’d look nice, complement your black hair,” John shrugged; not noticing the odd sort of shine Sherlock’s eyes took.

“I’m not a girl, John,” Sherlock groaned.

“Oh, I’m quite aware of that,” John grinned lewdly and Sherlock grumbled behind him something about being a “disgusting pervert,” but he put the flower back in his hair anyway.

                                                                                                ***

The sun was just starting to set when they found the small pool, nestled inside a cave. John smiled at Sherlock, his teeth glinting in the setting sun.

“Sherlock,” he practically purred and Sherlock flushed. _That’s my thing_ he thought grumpily but John was already in front of him, slowly unbuttoning the younger boy’s shirt. “Have you ever gone skinny dipping?”

Sherlock had no idea what on earth that was, but he was starting to get the idea as John pulled his shirt off completely and threw it on a rock where it was quickly joined by John’s tee-shirt.

“Are you suggesting we swim in questionable water, utterly naked?” Sherlock choked out as John’s thin fingers pulled his belt out from its loops.

“Is someone a little scared?” John teased and Sherlock felt himself go impossibly redder.

“It just doesn’t seem like the _best_ idea you’ve had-“ Sherlock tried again as John unceremoniously pulled down Sherlock’s trousers and Sherlock stopped breathing.

“You do the last bit,” John smiled indulgently, stripping off his own jeans and throwing them onto the same rock as their shirts. “I like watching that bit.”

Sherlock swallowed thickly and then complied, standing before John utterly naked. He could _feel_ John’s eyes rake him up and down and for some reason it warmed him, instead of scaring him as it should have.

“Absolutely beautiful,” John murmured, his own clothes on the ground. Sherlock was shocked to see Mycroft was right, John had lost close to two stone since their last summer and his stomach nearly touched his spine.

“You’ve lost so much weight,” Sherlock cried softly, coming over to lay his hands on John’s bare stomach.

“Sorry bout that,” John excused and then Sherlock kissed him, all teeth and tongue. Sherlock never _initiated_ kisses; he simply took the ones John gave him happily. But this was lovely, and Sherlock relished his moments of control as he pulled at John’s bottom lip, needing it raw, and John moaned appreciatively.

“Look at you,” he gasped out, pupils dilated, “I taught you so well.” And then with one smooth push Sherlock was hurtling into the open water.

He hit the pool with a splash and it was only a second before John was next to him, pulling him into an incredibly slick and naked embrace.

Sherlock’s nerves felt like they were on fire as John rubbed luxuriously against him, treading to stay above water, and then he was flush against John’s naked body, John devouring his mouth.

“Don’t ever think you’re the dominate one here,” John groaned open mouthed against him as his cock came up to rub against Sherlock’s, shooting waves of pleasure through the younger boy’s body. “Tell me, who do you belong to?”

“You,” Sherlock gasped out and it rolled into a moan.

“That’s right,” John urged, his fingers kneading into Sherlock’s sides. “Be as loud as you want, there’s no one out here to hear it.”

“Oh _John,”_ Sherlock moaned equally as loud, the name echoing off the surrounding trees and he felt John grin against his offered neck.

“Imagine how loud you’re going to scream my name tonight, how badly you’re going to _beg_ I touch you,” John lavished and Sherlock felt something utterly hot and scalding pool at the bottom of his stomach- _desire_. “I am going to _devour_ you Sherlock.”

“Oh,” Sherlock shuddered as John nipped at the skin along his neck, leaving hot bursts of pain he quickly soothed with his tongue.

“We are going to come home with you _covered_ in my teeth-marks, would you like that?” John asked, before leaning in to make another mark below the first.

“Ye-yes” Sherlock stammered out, his fingers struggling for purchase on John’s wet shoulders before suddenly John was _gone._

“John!” he called out suddenly and he heard a chuckle from deeper in the cave as he realized John had swam out of his hold.

“Come swim!” John urged and Sherlock could have _killed_ him for how utterly calm his voice was. “The water’s fantastic.”

“You bastard,” Sherlock choked out and John only laughed again, diving down to tug at Sherlock’s feet before surfacing.

“Relax highness,” John smiled, flipping over to float on his back and giving Sherlock an irresistible view, “the fun’s just starting.”

They swam for close to an hour, stopping occasionally to kiss but John never let it get too far and Sherlock was growing more and more on edge until, after the fifth time John had dived out of his hold, he snapped.

“Just _fuck_ me already!” he screamed and the request hung in the cool night air.

John spun around to gaze at him through glazed eyes. “My poor baby, you’re so on edge.”

Sherlock was still seething, but John swam over, eyeing him carefully.

“You’re so close I bet _anything_ would send you over, wouldn’t it?” John teased, circling him calmly and Sherlock was vaguely reminded of a shark circling its prey.

“John,” he tried to get out calmly but it came out as a moan, luscious and wet and John grinned at him.

“Do you want me to suck you, baby?” John asked, swimming closer and Sherlock felt like he was drowning. “Do you want to fuck my throat until you’re screaming and pulling my hair out?”

“John-“ he tried to warn him but there were lights flashing in his brain as it conjured up familiar images of John on his knees, his mouth around Sherlock and he couldn’t _breathe._

“You moan like a porn star, do you know that?” John urged, swimming in close enough that Sherlock could feel his breath on his face. “I just want to record you and play those noises over and over again while I touch myself all alone-“

“ _John_ -“ Sherlock begged and then he shuddered as he came, his body going limp in the water and John’s eyes widened. Once Sherlock had calmed down, John spoke hesitantly.

“Sherlock, did you just-“ he asked, _stupid question_.

“ I tried to warn you,” Sherlock pointed out dryly, swimming to the edge and climbing out.

“You just came to my dirty talk,” John muttered, shaking his head and following the blushing teen out. “You really are a kinky bastard.”

“You’re very good at it,” Sherlock conceded, head hanging down, and John laughed as he wrapped him in a hug.

“I love you, you know that,” he smiled against Sherlock’s bare shoulder and Sherlock smiled back.

“Now you have two choices,” John said, releasing him. “You can suck me off kindly right here, or I can make good on my threat to have you moan gorgeously while I touch myself. Your choice.”

Sherlock chose the first and John was perfectly happy with that.

                                                                                ***

By the time they made it back to the tent, the stars were out and the clearing was lit by a spring of moonlight. They ate dinner by the car and then John crawled into the tent and Sherlock followed hesitantly.

“Help me with this, would you?” John asked, unrolling the two sleeping bags and unzipping them down the side. Sherlock held the seams together as John popped off the zipper and used the second one to zip the two bags back together until the formed one giant sleeping bag.

“Absolutely perfect,” John smiled, examining his work. Sherlock quickly stripped into pajamas and John followed, pulling on sweatpants before climbing into the mega-sleeping bag alongside Sherlock.

John turned on his side and Sherlock turned to face him and in a minute they were snogging, mouths moving with practiced precision. Sherlock suddenly realized how _alone_ they were and a sudden terror gripped him. _Are we going to do it here? In a tent?_ It shocked Sherlock to realize that if John rolled on top of him right now, he wouldn’t fight.

“Sherlock,” John broke off, noticing his tension. “What’s wrong?”

“Are we going to-“ Sherlock tried awkwardly and John shook his head, smiling lazily at him.

“Sherlock, we are not having sex in a tent,” John practically giggled. “You are not having your first time in a sleeping bag with rocks digging into your back. When- if- we do it, it will be in a bed with pillows and there may or may not be candles involved.”

“John-“ Sherlock was hesitant. The internet had told him if your boyfriend took you camping, you should expect sex. Did the internet lie about everything?

“Sherlock, my first time was shite, and I’ll be damned if your first time isn’t perfect,” John promised, reaching up one hand to push back Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock felt his body flood with a strange sort of warmth and he unconsciously snuggled closer to John, intertwining their legs.

“Did you read the book I sent you?” John whispered into his ear, a laugh hiding behind the question, and Sherlock blushed.

“Yes,” he admitted. He’d been a bit shocked to open John’s package and find _The Gay Karma Sutra_ , but he’d read it cover to cover, blushing the whole time. “Where did you buy that thing?”

“At a shop in London, it was unbearably awkward,” John confessed, laughing into his hair. “The shop girl kept eyeing me carefully the whole time.”

“She should learn to keep her eyes to herself,” Sherlock grumbled, pressing closer. “You’re mine.”

Above him, John let out a breath and then Sherlock could feel him smile against his head. “Yes,” he promised, closing his eyes, “yours.”


	4. Keep me Safe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovelies! I think that was the longest I ever went without updating. The horror!   
> I was out of the country (on a camping trip myself- oh the irony) and away from my laptop. Don't worry, we go back to our usual schedule of rapid updates again <3

Sherlock awoke to the sound of shuffling outside the tent. He rolled back over into John’s arms, snuggling away from the cold morning air, but the noise continued. Annoyed, Sherlock carefully detangled himself from the bag and crept out of the tent before stopping dead.

“John,” Sherlock hissed, keeping his voice down.

Inside the tent, John turned over and clutched at the sleeping bag. “Too early,” he muttered, covering his face.

“ _John,_ ” Sherlock tried not to yell, standing stock still.

“What do you want Sherlock?” John called out, rubbing at his eyes.

“John, come here _now,_ ” Sherlock repeated.

John groaned. “Alright fine,” he stretched, coming out. “But this-“

At that he stopped, face turning white. “Sherlock, that’s a bear,” he whispered to the other teen. Both stared at the giant lumbering hulk of brown fur standing next to their car, staring them dead in the eye.

“John, you are of average intelligence, I don’t see why you feel the need to state the obvious all the time,” Sherlock whispered back furiously.

John eyed the bear for a minute, sizing it up. “They say you should make yourself look scary,” he informed Sherlock, who wasn’t quite sure who _they_ were and what made them authorities on bears. John took a deep breath and roared, puffing himself up as big as he could get.

The bear was not remotely fazed and began glaring at John with the same ever-suffering look the boy was used to from Sherlock.

“I don’t think he was scared,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Now who’s stating the obvious?” John muttered, backing up. “Now what?”

Sherlock scanned the bear, taking it in. “Fur’s matted, water remnants around the eyes, mud on the paws but no blood in the claws-“

“Are you analyzing the bear?” John whisper-yelled. “It didn’t commit a murder, Sherlock. Or did it? Please tell me it didn’t.”

“The paws, John! The paws,” Sherlock realized excitedly. “Why is there mud on the paws but no blood under the claws?”

“It got a manicure,” John suggested angrily. “I have no idea, Sherlock, but we’re about to be eaten-“

“Think John!” Sherlock called, moving out towards the car. “It was by the river, mud and water, but no blood. It didn’t catch anything. It’s hungry John!”

“Obviously it’s hungry; it’s going to eat us!” John exclaimed.

“Not if we feed it,” Sherlock suggested and before John had time to grab him, he’d opened the car and pulled out the cooler.

“Hey there, Cesare,” Sherlock called out to the lumbering bear which had not moved since the boys had appeared on the scene. “Are you hungry?”

“Did you just name the bear?” John cried, frozen in place. Neither boy wanted to startle the newly christened Cesare.

Sherlock pointedly ignored him and fished out a cooked ham from the cooler. “Not your general diet but we do hope you forgive us,” he excused as the bear eyed the ham. “Bon appetite.” Sherlock threw the ham to the bear and Cesare picked it up. Both teens held their breath as he sniffed at it and then picked it up in his jaws, lumbering away.

The second John was sure Cesare was gone, he ran to Sherlock grabbing him in a crushing hug.

“You idiot! It could’ve killed you!” he cried, moving to check Sherlock over.

“Cesare would never have hurt me,” Sherlock promised, brushing off John’s hands.

John let out an almighty sigh. “Why the hell did you name the bear? Scratch that, why Cesare?”

“Cesare Beccaria, the first major criminologist,” Sherlock shrugged, moving back to the cooler and coming out with yoghurts and spoons. “It seemed rude to try and converse with something nameless.”

“No one can ever say dating you is boring,” John puffed out before taking a yoghurt and sitting down by the car. “Now come, let’s eat quickly. We’ll have to move camp or Cesare will come back. And we don’t have any more ham.”

                                                                                                ***

They ended up moving to the other side of the mountain and Sherlock sighed upon learning they were going hiking again.

“Trust me,” John urged, taking the younger boy’s hand. “You’ll enjoy this.”

“I hardly see the benefit of preforming this walking experiment twice. I collected more than sufficient data from the last walk,” Sherlock insisted, following John down the path.

“And remember how that ended,” John winked at him and Sherlock shut up.

It felt like they’d walked for _hours_ but suddenly Sherlock could feel a faint pounding and a rush and then they were standing in front of the largest waterfall Sherlock had ever seen.

“Tada,” John smiled widely, gesturing to the looming wall of water. “Told you it’d be good.”

“It’s beautiful,” Sherlock agreed.

“Isn’t it?” John agreed, peeling his shirt off. “I’m so glad I googled this place.”

“John I don’t think-“ Sherlock started and John laughed.

“We’re leaving our trousers on, you pervert,” he advised and then grabbed the younger boy’s hand. “Let’s go!”

They ran screaming like hooligans into the rushing fall. John caught a fistful of the freezing water and tossed it into Sherlock’s face, laughing like an idiot, and Sherlock had to choice but to push him back. Before long, they found a small niche behind the falls. Inspired, Sherlock backed John up against the rock wall and smiled down at him.

“I never paid you back for last night,” Sherlock smiled wickedly. “All that teasing you put me through. I think you should be punished.”

John stared up at the taller boy, pupils quickly dilating. “I’ll have to say no,” he said calmly, holding his ground.

“Oh John,” Sherlock laughed softly, “you don’t get a _choice._ ”

Sherlock leaned down and John came up to meet him and seconds before their lips crashed into each other, they heard a small voice at the back of the cave.

“Are you gonna kiss?” the voice said and both boys spun around to find a little girl of five standing in a swimsuit at the entrance to the cave.

“Why hello there,” John smiled, shaking off his arousal in milliseconds while Sherlock struggled to compose himself in the back of the cave, and coming over to the little girl. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Angelica,” the girl said matter-of-factly. “Are you gonna kiss or not? When mummy kisses daddy she makes me look away. Should I look away?”

John laughed. “I think we should get you back to your mummy, Angelica. She’s probably worried.”

Angelica looked around, suddenly noticing where she was. “I don’t know where she is,” she confessed, her bottom lip starting to quiver and John bent down to scoop her up.

“Don’t worry,” he eased, settling her on his hip. “I’m sure she’s right outside. I’m John, this is Sherlock,” he introduced as Sherlock came over from the wall to join them.

Angelica looked him up and down. “You should get a haircut,” she advised the taller boy. “You look like a girl.”

“And you-“ Sherlock started but John shushed him.

“Bit not good, love,” John recommended in a whisper. “Arguing with children and all that.”

“I’m not a child,” Angelica insisted.

“No, of course not,” John agreed, heading out of the cave and through the fall. “He is, though.”

Angelica was still laughing when they found her mummy sitting in the grass by the falls.

“Angie!” The woman called, getting up. She was in her late thirties and in a very mom-oriented bathing suit, big floppy hat and all.

“Mummy, I got lost and John helped me,” Angelica cried, jumping out of John’s arms and into her mother’s.

“She just got a bit turned around was all,” John brushed off, sticking out his hand. “John.”

“Margaret,” Angie’s mom introduced herself, shaking John’s hand. “Thank you so much. Children- you turn around for one second and they’re gone.”

“It wasn’t a problem,” John smiled good naturedly and Sherlock felt his heart swell with pride behind him. John was so _easy_ with people. Sherlock could make any idiot trust him with three perfectly crafted sentences, but John didn’t even have to _try._ He simply _was,_ and people loved him.

“You boys on holiday?” Margaret asked, turning to look at Sherlock.

“Yeah, summer break,” John explained. “This is Sherlock.”

“Pleasure,” Sherlock reached out to shake Margaret’s hand and she smiled at him.

“Thank you boys so much,” she repeated and Sherlock found himself noticing _stain on left pocket- nicotine. Smoker- former? Yes, but struggling-_

“They were kissing,” Angie whispered to her mother, breaking Sherlock’s train of thought and leaving John flustered.

Margaret blushed and hushed her daughter. “We don’t talk about other people’s business, Angie,” she tried to explain and glanced at the boys.

“I’m so sorry,” she mouthed to John and he shrugged easily, unfazed.

“Kids will be kids, right?” he laughed and Sherlock had had enough.

“My husband’s just getting the food, why don’t you join us for lunch?” Margaret suggested but before John could answer, Sherlock butted in.

“So sorry. We’d love to but I left something back at our campsite, really should go get that. John?”

John shrugged at Margaret and moved to follow Sherlock. “Sure love,” he smiled at him, gathering their shirts.

“Congratulations on quitting, by the way,” Sherlock offered Margaret, and her eyes widened in shock. “It was the right decision, best for Angie.” And with that, he grabbed John’s hand and pulled him out of the clearing.

“What was that about?” John said briskly once they’d cleared the falls.

“I believe the colloquial term is _cockblocking_ ,” Sherlock tried and John burst out laughing.

“Yes it is,” he agreed, moving back to lean Sherlock against a tree. “Let’s fix that, shall we?”


	5. Take me Home

They spent their last night on the mountains resting against each other by the fire John built, to Sherlock’s great pleasure. They had taken shelter beneath a fleece blanket and Sherlock was cradled between John’s legs like a nesting doll, their fingers interlaced on Sherlock’s lap.

“John?” Sherlock asked softly and John hmmmd. “Who did you have sex with?”

John spluttered a moment. “Does it matter?” he asked finally, his heart a beat faster.

“No,” Sherlock said honestly. “I wanted to know.” And he really _didn’t_ care who John had had sex with before because John was _his_ now and that was what mattered. But Sherlock was Sherlock and he liked answers to all his questions, even ones not deemed necessary.

John sighed. “My second time was with this girl Sarah, she’s in my year. It was quite nice actually, but we didn’t really work out. Still good friends though,” he confessed and it didn’t take a genius to put the pieces together.

“Your first time wasn’t consensual,” Sherlock put forth and John didn’t rush to contradict him.

“I wasn’t abused or anything,” he clarified, head resting atop Sherlock’s. “I just wasn’t ready was all. I was bit too young.”

“How young?” Sherlock asked.

“Fourteen,” John admitted and Sherlock could picture John at fourteen, skinny as a bone and ruddy, blonde hair almost white.

“Your dad had been drinking for two years then,” Sherlock put it together, like a puzzle in his brain and it didn’t satisfy him like it usually did.

“She was a friend of Harry’s,” he said quietly and Sherlock did the math.

“She was sixteen?” he asked, surprised.

“Seventeen,” John fixed, looking down. “I never told anyone. You know how boys are, they hear you shagged a seventeen year old and it’s all whoops and catcalls.”

“You didn’t want that,” Sherlock said, and it was not a question.

“Didn’t feel appropriate,” John muttered and Sherlock turned to hug him better. He could feel his own heart pounding in time with John’s and before he could stop it, before he could remind himself that John had just told him about his terrible sexual experience and it was a _bit not good_ , he said the words he’d been thinking since the day he’d opened that package at Eton.

“When we get back,” Sherlock hesitated, breathing a bit, “I want to.”

John’s eyes widened a bit, glowing bright blue in the firelight. “Sherlock, there’s no pressure. It’s not a race to do it before I leave-“

“I want to,” Sherlock said, his voice still soft but unwavering. “I have since I met you.”

“Jesus,” John whispered, tightening his hold on the younger boy. “I thought-“

“I didn’t understand it,” Sherlock admitted and that was hard, admitted his lack of knowledge. “But I do now and I know that I want you, I want you to be a _part_ of me, I’ve never wanted something so badly-“

Sherlock was cut off by John’s lips on his, hard and insistent and Sherlock opened his lips to the sweep on John’s tongue and his hands came up to rest in John’s hair, pulling out groans with the twist of his fingers.

“Do you mean that?” John moaned into Sherlock’s open mouth, hands digging into the younger boy’s hipbones.

“Yes,” Sherlock panted back, hands coming down to work at John’s shirt, pulling it over his head.

“Not here,” John protested weakly, stretching his neck to give Sherlock a better angle. “I want it to be per- _ohhhh,_ ” he moaned as Sherlock’s teeth sunk into his neck, sucking on skin hard enough to make bruises.

“I know,” Sherlock sighed against John’s neck. “We are grossly unprepared out here. But once we get home-“

“Oh _god_ yes,” John cried softly, flipping them over to land Sherlock squarely on his back, John working feverishly at his jaw. “Once the house is empty, you can moan as loud as you want. Your moans are _fucking_ beautiful, you know,” he praised, rubbing against Sherlock at just the right angle that had the younger boy arching up for more contact.

“You’re beautiful,” Sherlock said honestly, one hand reaching up to stroke John’s cheek and in a second, the moment went from intense heat to slow-burning care, gentle and loving.

John looked down at him, black hair a mess, pupils blown and pale skin made whiter by the moonlight. “I love you,” he said softly, the words falling like a prayer from his lips.

“Then why are you leaving me?” Sherlock said and immediately his face went bloodless. He hadn’t meant to say the words that had been hovering on the edge of his tongue since the summer began but they’d fallen out of their own accord and John was looking at him like he was bleeding out on the forest floor.

“Because I want this, more than anything,” John explained firmly, and Sherlock was reminded of just how _strong_ his small, fragile John was.

“More than me?” Sherlock pushed and John shook his head.

“Different kind of wanting,” John said and Sherlock thought he understood.

                                                                ***

They left that morning, packing up the car and driving back to the country house. Harry and Mycroft were sitting on the porch and they looked up as the car pulled onto the gravel driveway.

“How was the trip?” Harry asked as John got out and made his way to the trunk.

“Fantastic,” John smiled, pulling out their stuff. “We saw a bear.”

“So that’s where Sherlock went,” Mycroft muttered and John laughed as Sherlock sulked out of the car.

“Mycroft, as your brother I really must urge you not to quit your day job,” he hissed at Mycroft and the older brother merely smiled.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he smirked and Sherlock breezed past them, waltzing into the house.

“Are those my boys I hear?” Cynthia called from inside and John followed Sherlock into the den when Cynthia and Victoria lounged on the couch. Cynthia got up to hug John and Victoria spared them both a smile from above her magazine.

“Did you boys have a good time?” Cynthia asked, settling back down and taking Victoria’s feet back into her lap.

“It was really nice Mum,” John smiled.

“I was thinking we might all take a day trip tomorrow,” Victoria suggested, turning a page idly. “Perhaps to a show.”

“Sherlock and I will probably stay home,” John confessed, leaning against the doorway. “We’re a bit knackered.”

“Oh you poor babies,” Cynthia cooed. “Go take a kip.”

“Try and do it in separate rooms,” Harry offered from the hallway and the boys turned bright red. Cynthia laughed, but what was most surprising was Victoria’s reaction.

“I did tell him the connecting door was a good idea,” she murmured, not looking up, and Sherlock nearly collapsed in shock.

“Come on,” John yawned, taking Sherlock by the hand and leading him upstairs.

“She just-“ Sherlock spluttered and John glanced around quickly before kissing Sherlock quickly on the stairs.

“I think my mum had a few words with her,” John suggested to Sherlock’s comically shocked face. “Now come, before I collapse on the stairs.” And with that John dragged Sherlock to his room _their room by now_ and firmly shut the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you guys know what's coming tomorrow? Take a guess. Go on, I dare you ;)


	6. Rock me Breathless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's here my lovelies! It's finally here! <3 The moment we've all been waiting for...

John was on the couch in the den and Sherlock sat perched in an armchair, fingers steepled under his chin.

“If he didn’t have a mistress, then who was he sending that jewelry to?” Sherlock puzzled, eyes unfocused.

“His wife?” John suggested, not looking up from his book as he turned a page.

“No, no, no,” Sherlock tutted, waving a hand. “You saw what she was wearing. If he had bought those rings for _her_ , she would have been wearing at least one.”

“Ask Mycroft, he’s smart,” John advised and Sherlock scoffed.

“Like I’d ever ask for help from Mycroft,” Sherlock positively sneered. “Besides, he and Harry left the house an hour ago.”

“Really?” John looked up, surprised. He hadn’t heard them leave.

“Yeah, about a half hour after our mums left,” Sherlock explained and then froze. The house was utterly empty. And if generally Victoria liked to stop for lunch and Harry was planning on introducing Mycroft to Clara, then it would be so for a good three hours.

“Sherlock?” John asked, noticing his stillness. “Is everything alright?”

Sherlock looked up and their eyes met and in that moment it was like a surge of electricity had sparked between them like lightning and John could read Sherlock’s mind, his eyes widening.

“Now?” he asked, voice shaking and Sherlock nodded and that was the end. Within seconds they had both jumped up, grabbed hands and _ran_ up the stairs to John’s room, faster than any train, car or plane. John had barely even closed the door before Sherlock had slammed him up against it and dived down to capture his mouth. He bit John’s lower lip hard enough to draw blood and the older boy melted against the door.

“Sherlock, are you sure-“ John tried to protest around Sherlock’s insistent mouth.

“Shut up,” Sherlock _growled_ , actually growled and John felt his stomach drop out. “Stop talking and fuck me.”

“Jesus,” John whimpered as Sherlock yanked his shirt off. He started on John’s belt when John’s hand came to hold his.

“Wait,” he said softly, and his tone brought Sherlock back to earth. “Slowly.”

Sherlock paused and John’s hands came up gently to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt. “We’ll have plenty of chances to do this fast,” he promised, working on the buttons. “This time we go slow.”

Sherlock nodded, swallowing, as John slid off his shirt and rubbed his chest, stopping to pinch his nipple with a wink.

“ _John,”_ Sherlock moaned and John smiled widely, before faltering.

“We’re going to need-“ he started to worry but Sherlock stopped him with a smile.

“Wait here a second,” he said and ran into his room. He was back in a minute with what looked like lube and a box of condoms.

“Jesus, you went out and bought these?” John wondered, eyes wide, as he came over to take the items from Sherlock’s hand.

“No, I stole them from Mycroft,” Sherlock brushed off and John looked up.

“Why does Mycroft have-“ he started to ask and Sherlock shuddered.

“I don’t like to think about it,” he choked and for some reason, John burst into laughter.

“John, the thought of Mycroft having sex is not remotely funny,” Sherlock insisted and John laughed harder.

“I love your face,” he choked out between laughs, feeling at the line Sherlock’s mouth made, “the faces you make. I love it. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Sherlock promised and they kissed, slowly, with all the time in the world. The room was lit up by the afternoon sun, lazy and languid, as John swirled his tongue in Sherlock’s mouth, fingers trailing down Sherlock’s back in long, lazy lines.

“We should go to the bed,” Sherlock advised, kissing John in easy breaths.

“Take your trousers off first,” John laughed into his mouth and Sherlock laughed back, their foreheads pressed together as they pulled off their pants. It was clumsy and messy and they both fell into the bed giggling like children.

“We shouldn’t laugh,” Sherlock protested weakly as John moved him onto his back against the pillows. “This is serious.”

“Says who?” John protested, trailing kisses down Sherlock’s offered chest.

“It’s just not proper,” Sherlock insisted and John looked up at him from beneath his eyelashes. Sherlock felt himself go hot. John was utterly… beautiful. There was no other word.

“If you insist,” John shrugged and proceeded to nip at one of Sherlock’s nipples, prompting the boy to let out a gasp.

“Who’s laughing now?” John teased, licking at the offered bud and Sherlock arched up into John’s mouth.

“Shut up- just-“ Sherlock tried and John bit down again, harder and Sherlock moaned.

He lost count of the kisses John left trailing down his stomach towards his crotch as his fingers tangled in John’s hair, left blonde by the afternoon sun casting shadows on the two teens. Then John’s breath was above him and Sherlock felt faint.

“Sherlock,” John warned, looking up at the boy already flushed and sweating. “This is going to hurt.”

“I trust you,” Sherlock said openly and John kisses him gently, prying his lips apart with his tongue, tracing the tops of his teeth and rubbing against the younger boy’s tastebuds, prompting shivers.

“I’ll go slowly,” John promised, carefully slicking his fingers and then his index finger was circling Sherlock’s perineum. The two boys locked eyes as John slid one finger into Sherlock and the younger boy hissed.

“ _Christ,_ ” Sherlock cried softly. It _hurt_ , like nothing he’d ever felt before, and he shuddered under John.

“Shhh,” John hushed, desperately trying to calm the younger boy with kisses, the kind that generally left Sherlock spinning.

“It feels like-“ Sherlock struggled to explain, for once in his life utterly lost for words, and John kissed him again.

“I know love, I know,” he eased. “You’re tight, it’s fine. We’ll take our time. We have all day.”

John bent down lower to ease himself deeper, searching carefully for what the books he'd battered for and read told him he'd find. It took a while, Sherlock trying to keep still beneath him, but finally he found it and Sherlock’s eyes shot wide open as he arched up against John’s finger.

“Prostate,” John explained, smiling faintly as Sherlock stopped looking uncomfortable and instead looked positively wanton, pupils blown. No book had told him it would work like magic.

“I know,” Sherlock gasped out as John hit it again. “It was obvi-ous,” he cried, the last word cut in half by his own small gasps.

“Does this feel okay?” John asked, carefully watching Sherlock’s face.

“Yeah it’s-“ Sherlock assured and John rubbed against it again, cutting the boy off as his breath hitched. “Oh,” Sherlock mouthed in wonder at the heat pooling through him. “ _Oh,_ do that again.” _And again_ he thought, a tad incoherent. _And again and again._

“In a minute,” John promised, kissing the inside of his thigh. “I’m going to add another finger. If it feels like too much, we stop this, right here, right now. Okay?”

"For goodness sakes, John. Must you be such a gentleman about this-" Sherlock started effortlessly and then whined as John pressed inside him, two fingers scissoring gently, stretching him out.

It was the strangest sensation, like wet heat and velvet, and John wanted to giggle. But he had a feeling it was bad etiquette to giggle while inside someone so he bit his lip instead. “I hear,” he whispered, like it was contraband news, “that after a while this part gets awesome. Some people even _beg_ for it. You’d be fantastic at begging, I bet.” He licked his lips unconsciously and Sherlock followed the motion, mouth open. “Your voice is sin; I feel like I never tell you that.”

Sherlock practically _panted_ , his eyes starting to glaze over as John slowly unraveled him.

“How do you _know_ all this?” Sherlock asked in wonder as John finger-fucked him into the mattress.

“Research,” John smiled and the idea of John, sitting in his bed in London reading how to pleasure Sherlock nearly sent the boy to pieces.

“Perfect,” John said, calling him back reality and Sherlock noticed he’d opened his legs further out at John’s touch. John seemed to stop the cocky persona he put on for Sherlock's benefit and grew nervous. "Spread your legs, just like that. Can you do three fingers? For me?” he asked carefully and Sherlock loved him for it

Sherlock nodded and then the pain was like nothing he ever felt before, ramrod hot and twisting and he couldn’t _fit_.

“Oh love, please,” John shushed gently as Sherlock let out a sob, his eyes still closed. John moved three fingers inside of him, spreading, and stretching, and rubbing, and John felt like he was drowning in the pained sounds that Sherlock was making, twisting himself into the sheets.

“Trust me,” John urged and Sherlock’s hand scrabbled for his, intertwining their fingers and squeezing down hard enough to make John see spots. “It’s alright baby, I promise.”

He had no idea if this was alright; he was lying through his goddamn teeth. But Sherlock, unfailingly observant Sherlock, bought it hook, line and sinker. The books had warned him it would hurt but there were tears pricking the corners of Sherlock’s eyes and John was simultaneously the worst person in the world and the most turned on he had ever been.

John bent down, intent on distracting Sherlock, and took the boy's cock into his mouth, sucking and rubbing the flat of his tongue against it. He rubbed three fingers against Sherlock's prostate, rubbed and pressed against it, until the utterly pitiful sobbing sounds tearing out from the genius’s throat turned into breathless moans.

“John,” Sherlock called out blindly, pulling at the older boy’s hair. “John stop, I’m going to-“

“Okay,” John eased, dislodging and Sherlock whimpered against his will at the loss of contact. “Are you ready?”

“Hurry,” Sherlock urged and John could have cried.

He was clumsy, making a mess with the lubricant and fumbling with the condom and both boys flushed for different reasons. But first times are meant to be a bit awkward. He eased Sherlock’s legs over his shoulders, cradling himself in the crook of the younger boy’s hips, and gently kissed Sherlock’s knee.

“Squeeze my hand,” John ordered and Sherlock did as John reached his other hand down to maneuver himself into Sherlock. He pushed in and Sherlock let out a sudden scream, squeezing John’s hand white and dragging scratches down John’s back and John kissed him firmly, warmly, to hold back the sobs.

“Just breathe for me, love," John whispered and Sherlock did, chest shaking and soaked in sweat and John pushed and then suddenly there was heat, hot and pulsing, all around him and John let his head fall back and _moaned._

Sherlock stared up at him in utter awe, cupid-bow mouth open in utter surprise. “John,” he said, his voice more fragile than glass, “you’re _inside_ of me.”

“Yeah,” John smiled, bending down to kiss him again and again and again until Sherlock couldn’t see and all the pain was so worth it for _this_. “I am.”

“Move,” Sherlock urged, breathless and John shook his head.

“Not for a minute,” he warned as his body surged in pure need. “Get used to me first.”

“John-“ Sherlock ordered and John reached one hand under him to cradle the small of Sherlock’s back, the other hand still interlocked with Sherlock’s.

“Alright,” John agreed and then he began to _rock_. It was like waves, gentle and unyielding and Sherlock couldn’t breathe, all he could do was make tiny sounds of pleasure and pain, whimpers and moans, and John swallowed them up greedily, kissing his neck and face, sliding his tongue into the wet heat of Sherlock’s perfect mouth.

“I’m going to speed up, okay?” John asked, _too gentle,_ and then he pulled out just a bit so the head of his cock was rubbing against Sherlock’s prostate and Sherlock shook like a leaf.

“Oh _god_ yes,” Sherlock moaned and then John began to fuck him in earnest, the bed moving underneath them as the headboard hit the wall and Sherlock still had enough sense to thank the gods no one was home.

John grabbed at Sherlock’s hips, bones sharp in his hands, and Sherlock rolled his hips into the thrusts experimentally, smiling widely as John arched against him and let out a groan of his own.

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock called carefully and John looked down at him and Sherlock was truly and properly drowning in ocean eyes so deep and warm, waves rocking up against rocks as John rocked against him, sending waves coursing through Sherlock’s body. John’s pupils were blown and the water was dark, so deep blue it was nearly indigo, and Sherlock felt like he’d come home.

“You,” Sherlock said, even though _he_ was the one being fucked, even though _he_ was the one being torn to bits, “are mine.”

“Yeah,” John agreed, pulling them closer with a needy whimper. “Yours.”

Those words alone sent Sherlock back into pleasure, John sliding in and out of him, hitting that small bundle of nerves over and over again and he was still so sensitive from John’s mouth and he could feel it build, like fire growing hotter.

Sherlock moaned, loud and shamelessly, because he knew it drove John absolutely mad and he closed his eyes, letting himself twist perfectly against the sheets, his hair tangling, sweat dripping down into the pillow.

“Look at me,” John urged and Sherlock did, gray eyes snapping open at the sound of John’s voice. “I want to see you when you come." He stopped his head to drop one, perfect kiss on the younger boy's forehead. "You're so put together all the time. I want to see you unravel-"

“Oh John,” Sherlock practically sobbed, his free hand coming up to cradle John’s face, tracing his cheek bones, and never in his life had he been so inarticulate. “I want- I need-“

“Anything,” John promised, voice rough with lust and desire, and that voice sounded so wrong coming out of John’s face, so innocent and sweet, and Sherlock asked.

“John,” he begged, eyes locked into oceans of pleasure. “Make me come.”

John lost any shred of self-control he’d been holding onto since he’d sunk into Sherlock. His hips thrusted in a hypnotic rhythm, fucking Sherlock into the mattress, rubbing into the younger boy's prostate. He only had to reach down once to give the younger boy’s cock a harsh stroke before Sherlock shuddered and shook around him, coming hard as he moaned loud enough to wake the dead.

As Sherlock clenched and vibrated beneath John, the older boy fell apart, coming with a harsh groan, the headboard leaving imprints in the wall, as he filled the condom. He saw white, he saw stars, he saw wastelands of grey with specks of green and when John could finally open his eyes, he collapsed onto Sherlock’s chest, breathing in tandem.

“I’ll get out, I promise,” he mumbled into the sweaty expanse of Sherlock’s chest. “Give me a day, or two.”

“Stay,” Sherlock eased, running his fingers through John’s hair. “So you don’t have to stretch me out next time.”

“I hear that part gets fun eventually,” John encouraged and Sherlock scoffed.

John sat up and looked down at the boy beneath him. Sherlock's face was soft and easy, John’s cock still inside him, with his indecipherable eyes sated and lust filled, halo hair a sweaty mess of tangles, his chest sticky with his own come, and he smiled at John, flushed and happy and _perfect._ He looked like bliss.

“Come,” John said softly, sliding out of Sherlock and tying off the condom. “Let’s go get cleaned up.”

They took a shower, scrubbing each other gently, mindful of each other’s raw sensitivity. John toweled Sherlock off slowly, making sure to check for bruises and cuts. There was a small bruise forming at Sherlock’s waist from John’s hip bone digging into it but Sherlock insisted it didn’t hurt and John kissed it better for good measure.

They got dressed in pajama pants and tee shirts, Sherlock snuggling deep in John’s gray tee, before heading downstairs to the kitchen. John made tea and they ate the leftovers from last night’s dinner, stopping every so often to smile at each other and link fingers.

“You are so beautiful,” John said honestly, feeding Sherlock a strip of chicken. Sherlock captured the finger in his mouth and sucked, a part of his brain vaguely aware that a half-hour previously, said finger had been in his bum.

“I don’t feel any different,” Sherlock said suddenly.

“Not even a little sore?” John checked, a bit put out, and Sherlock laughed.

“Not physically. I mean-“ Sherlock struggled with the term, “I’m not a virgin anymore.”

“No you are not,” John grinned and Sherlock felt heat pool in the bottom of his stomach, despite the fact that he _was_ sore and it was too soon.

“I thought- I knew it _shouldn’t_ change me, scientifically. But I thought I might still feel… different,” Sherlock explained.

“You are different,” John said and Sherlock looked up. John’s oceans were calm now, light blue and easy, and Sherlock had no problem tumbling in, resting against white shores of sand. “You’re mine.”

“I was always yours,” Sherlock reminded him and John squeezed their interlocked hands.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “But now everyone knows it.”

“Hardly everyone,” Sherlock scoffed but he turned a light pink and John grinned.

“They will soon,” he said, pointing to the mouth-shaped bruise forming on Sherlock’s collarbone and they dissolved into giggles, perfectly content in that moment.

They were still laughing when Harry and Mycroft came in. Harry passed by the kitchen without a second glance but Mycroft paused in the doorway, taking in the two boys. He was silent a moment before shaking his head.

“So that’s where my stuff went,” he muttered and the boys shot each other matching horrified faces as Mycroft waltzed from the room, eager to tell Harry.

 

 

 


	7. Feed me Up

They don’t become sex rabbits after that first time, much to Sherlock’s mixed disappointment. There was still a large amount of snogging and some serious petting but the next time they have sex was two weeks after the first and in between they swim, they eat, they re-create crimes, they read. It’s lovely and lazy and the July heat slows everything down as they move in slow motion, taking their time.

It was on a Thursday, about a week after what John had decided to label “The Case of the Detective in the Bed.” They were sitting in their favorite tree, the great oak that sprawled out over the Holmes lawn. John rested comfortably on a branch, back against the trunk, while Sherlock practically dangled upside-down.

“Bored,” he groaned hair in his eyes.

“So read a book,” John said, eyes closed in the summer heat.

“Read them all,” Sherlock brushed off.

“Sherlock, you did not read all the books in the world,” John insisted offhandedly.

“All the interesting ones,” Sherlock amended and John sighed.

“We could eat something,” John suggested and Sherlock swung up, a wicked grin spreading across his face and John flushed.

“I met _food,_ you pervert. What have I created?” John said, horrified, and Sherlock laughed.

“You’ve turned me into nothing but a sex fiend, John,” Sherlock teased, running one hand up John’s thigh and the boy shuddered. “You’ve reduced the greatest intellect England had ever seen into nothing more than a petting slave.”

“A _modest_ petting slave,” John teased back but he leaned in to kiss the younger boy for a minute, tongues dueling, hands digging into flesh and hair, tugging and leaving marks.

“No, but really,” John insisted, breaking off, and Sherlock whined as John’s saliva cooled on his neck, “when’s the last time you ate?”

“Today is Thursday?” Sherlock checked and John nodded. “Then I’m fine for a while.”

“Sherlock, you can’t just not eat,” John sighed, an old argument.

“Just transport,” Sherlock reminded him.

“You didn’t just think it was ‘just transport’ last night,” John reminded him, grinning wickedly and Sherlock blushed.

“Well, there’s nothing to eat anyway,” Sherlock groaned, falling back. “Chef’s day off.”

“We could go into town,” John suggested. “Go to Nando’s.”

“Who is Nando?” Sherlock asked, swinging himself by his thighs.

John laughed and then looked at Sherlock, freezing. “You’re serious,” he said in shock, eyes widening.

“Is he a friend of yours?” Sherlock guessed, not trying.

“You posh motherfucker,” John said incredulously. “Who doesn’t know what Nando’s is?”

“John, do I have to sit up and deduce or will you just tell me what that is?” Sherlock pushed.

“Next you’ll tell me you don’t know who Graham Norton is,” John sighed, sinking his head into his hands.

“Should I?” Sherlock asked, starting to worry.

“We are going into town right now,” John said, jumping down from the tree and glaring up at Sherlock. “And you will have some Peri-Peri.”

“Does that mean something? Because it’s not French,” Sherlock insisted, jumping down and following John to the car. “I should know, I speak French. Fluently. John?”

They take a corner booth at Nando’s and order chicken breasts, Sherlock gazing around in utter shock.

“What kind of restaurant is this?” he asked, eyes wide.

“The kind for people who don’t have their own team of chefs,” John explained, biting at the chicken.

“Would sirs like cheese and pineapple with that?” the waiter asked, coming over and John shot him a withering look that had Sherlock feeling uncomfortable.

“Does anyone ever say yes to that question?” John asked and the waiter shook his head and left.

“This place-“ Sherlock stuttered, turning around in his booth to gaze at the other customers- screaming children, cheap dates and overworked businessmen-  “people eat here regularly?”

“Please stop sounding so bloody posh,” John urged, looking down. “It’s embarrassing.”

“I’ve just never-“ Sherlock gaped and John took his hand.

“Welcome to middle class,” he smiled and Sherlock shook his head.

“Amazing,” he insisted and went back to his chicken, surprised at how edible it was.

“No but really John,” he asked, as the paid the check. “What does Peri-Peri mean?”

John looked him dead in the eye. “It’s Portuguese for “Love me, my darling.””

Sherlock thought about it a minute before shaking his head. “No it’s not. That would be-“

“No one knows,” the boy, an acne-covered teen, behind the counter said sullenly. “Probably not even Nando himself.”

“Ridiculous,” Sherlock scoffed and John smiled at the boy.

“Have a nice day,’ he said pleasantly and they left.

“That was an experience,” Sherlock said, smiling. “I do believe I like takeout, John!”

“Good,” John sighed, heading down main street, “cause when we live in London we’ll be eating a _lot_ of it.”

Sherlock froze. John walked on for a minute before he noticed and turned around.

“Sherlock?” he asked carefully. “Did the food upset your stomach?”

“You want to live together?” Sherlock said, softly.

“I assumed we would, after Uni,” John said, coming over. “We talked about it-“

“When I was distressed. Things said in moments of distress carry no weight,” Sherlock clarified and John looked at him.

“Do you not… want to?” he said slowly, voice desperately trying to remain steady and Sherlock realized his mistake and grabbed John’s hands.

“Yes, yes, of course,” he insisted, squeezing. “I just wasn’t sure if you-“

“Of course I do, idiot,” John laughed and they smiled at each other in the middle of Main Street outside Nando’s.

“Well then,” Sherlock grinned, “that’s sorted.”

“Very,” John agreed and they continued down Main Street, hands linked.

That would have been the end of it, if Sherlock had not suddenly hissed and grabbed John’s shirt, yanking him into the alley.

“Bloody hell Sherlock,” John cried, landing against the younger boy. “We can kiss in the car if you-“

“Three o’clock,” Sherlock said, face impassive and John turned to see a couple walking down the street.

“Yeah?” John asked, confused.

“Look John, really _look,_ ” Sherlock urged and John did, letting out a gasp of his own.

“Is that-“ he stuttered.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock finished, face angry.

“Is he with-“

“Lestrade,” Sherlock hissed. “Married man with two children.”

“Jesus,” John muttered, eyes wide. “Mycroft’s having an _affair?_ ”

“Mycroft is the other woman,” Sherlock said dryly and it should have been funny but then they passed by the alley and John could see their faces, earnest and soft and gentle, and it made him sick in ways he didn’t understand.

“Shit,” John swore. “Did you know?”

“I assumed,” Sherlock said. “But I had no proof. Mycroft always denied everything.”

“And he’s _married?_ ” John checked, watching the couple recede from view.

“Six years,” Sherlock supplied and John swore again. “His oldest daughter’s five.”

“They looked properly in love and everything,” John hissed and Sherlock walked out of the alley.

“Exactly,” he said and headed down the street.

“Sherlock!” John whispered, yanking him back. “Where are you going?”

“To talk to them,” Sherlock said calmly.

“No, you can’t,” John insisted, holding the boy still.

“But-“

“No, Sherlock,” John insisted. “This is Mycroft’s mess. We don’t get involved.”

“I _work_ with Lestrade,” Sherlock insisted.

“Barely,” John reminded him. “Look Sherlock, this isn’t our business. We stay out of it. Got it?”

Sherlock glared at him a long minute before finally nodding.

“Thank you,” John sighed, letting go. “Last thing we need is to give Mycroft a reason to get involved in _ours._ ”

“Fair point,” Sherlock conceded and he followed John down the street, careful to stay a fair distance from the young couple.

“At least we know they’re being safe,” John pointed out and both boys glanced at each other before dissolving into laughter. The people on the street glared at them but they only laughed harder, holding onto each other for support.

“Let’s go to Nando’s every day, John,” Sherlock asked between fits of giggles.

“My pleasure,” John smiled and all was well.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clarification, for those who don't know. Nando's is a restaurant where they offer you pineapple and cheese with chicken for no discernible reason and Graham Norton hosts everything on BBC One. And I mean everything.


	8. Dance me Dirty

“Sherlock?” John asked as they rested by the highway after a run, the moonlight casting strange shadows on their faces. “Are we doing anything tomorrow night?”

“Hm,” Sherlock mused, aware of vibrations under his hand as a car approached. “I wanted to re-construct the third Ripper murder.”

“Can it be postponed?” John asked and Sherlock shrugged.

“Bit late to catch him anyway,” Sherlock admitted and John smiled.

“Great, so. Mike’s having this summer house party. Would you wanna go?” John asked and Sherlock raised one eyebrow.

“Did you forget what happened last time we went to a house party, John?” Sherlock asked sarcastically.

John sighed. “I loved that night. That was our first kiss.”

“I tasted like vomit,” Sherlock reminded him and John laughed.

“No you didn’t,” he argued. “You tasted like cheap beer and honey. But you always taste like honey.”

Sherlock flushed happily. He wasn’t sure why, maybe it was because John was the only person who ever _bothered_ to compliment him, but he thrived on those little compliments, slipped easily into their lives.

“If we must,” Sherlock gave an almighty sigh. “I’ll survive.”

“Oh shut up,” John smiled widely, pushing him. “You’ll love it.”

And so that was how Sherlock found himself standing in John’s room the next night, letting John mess his hair gently with his fingertips.

“I love when you wear my clothes,” John breathed on Sherlock’s throat, sending goose bumps down the younger boy’s neck.

“It was only logical,” Sherlock tried to keep his voice even. “I don’t own any… casual wear,” he said, spitting out the word _casual_ with disgust.

“Makes me feel like I _own_ you,” John confessed, voice low, and Sherlock’s stomach flipped.

“John,” Sherlock started, letting his hands rise up from his side and settle on John’s hips, “maybe we could just stay home?”

“I already told Mike we’re coming,” John sighed as his hands drifted down to splay against the boy’s chest. “He’s expecting us.”

“Oh, we’ll come alright,” Sherlock murmured in John’s ear and the older boy colored.

“I forget how much of a kinky bastard you are sometimes,” John laughed. “You have such an angelic face, it looks so weird when you say those things.”

“You love it though,” Sherlock pointed out, nipping at John’s ear.

“Mhhm, yeah,” John agreed, before gently dislodging Sherlock. “Now let’s go.”

Sherlock pouted and John squeezed his hand.

“Sherlock?” he asked, “have we had drunk sex yet?”

Sherlock stopped to count. So far, they’d had sex four times, and all of them had been sober. John had helpfully tagged them in Sherlock’s mind palace as _first time sex, proper sex, outside sex,_ and his personal favorite, _angry sex_.

“No, not yet,” Sherlock said and the older boy grinned sinfully.

“Well then, let’s fix that,” John suggested and Sherlock was suddenly much more excited about the party.

As they drove along the highway, lamplights granting them faint glimpses of each other’s faces, John turned to Sherlock.

“Sherlock, I don’t know if you want… I only told Mike about us but…” John tried, flustered.

Sherlcok bristled. “I’m more than capable of keeping our relationship a secret for the benefit of your friends.”

John looked over, shocked. “No, Sherlock! I _want_ to tell them. I just wasn’t sure if you minded.”

Did he _mind?_ Was John asking if, after years of people telling him he would die alone and hated, he would _mind_ getting to show off the one person who seemed inexplicably in love with him?

“I think I would survive,” Sherlock said casually as John pulled up in front of the house.

John beamed at him. “Alright then. That’s sorted.”

“It would seem so,” Sherlock nodded and they got out of the car. John locked the door and then threaded his fingers through Sherlock’s, shooting him a grin as they walked into the house.

It was like Déjà vu. Sherlock could vaguely make out familiar landmarks. There was where he’d talked to Irene, there was where he’d first found alcohol, and behind that curtain was the bathroom where-

“John!” a voice shouted and Mike came out to wrap John in a bear-hug. “You came!”

“Hey Mike,” John smiled. “You remember Sherlock?”

“Ah yes,” Mike turned his grin on the taller boy. “The boyfriend. How are you?”

Both boys bristled and Mike looked nervous.

“We don’t like that term,” John explained kindly. Sherlock had objected to it, calling it utterly infantile.

Mike looked at them, confused. “So what do you guys call each other?” he asked.

“Git, mostly,” John confessed and Sherlock held back a snicker. John turned to Sherlock and squeezed his hand. “I’m gonna go get drinks, wait here,” he ordered and left Sherlock with Mike.

“Sherlock Holmes, as I live and breathe,” a voice drawled from the back and Irene stepped out next to Mike.

“Irene,” Sherlock tried not to blush. She had tried to kiss him the last time they met, an advance he’d brushed off twice.

“I heard about you and John,” she smiled widely, showing incisors. “My congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said calmly.

She shook her head, laughing. “Should have figured. If you wouldn’t kiss _me_ , clearly we had different tastes.”

“It would seem so,” Sherlock nodded just as John came back with drinks.

“Irene,” he smiled at his classmate and hugged her.

“Is it true Johnny?” she asked, holding him close. “Are you really going to the military?”

“I leave end of august,” John confirmed and she hissed.

“I shall miss you Johnny,” she said, patting his cheek. “Take care of yourself out there.”

John smiled. “I will. Give Marie my regards.”

“I will,” Irene smiled back and disappeared with Mike.

“Marie?” Sherlock asked, turning to John.

“Her girlfriend,” John explained and Sherlock’s eyes widened a twinge. He hadn’t realized _that_. Then again, she had tried to kiss him. John threw back his drink and Sherlock followed, wincing at the taste. John had taken his inexperience into account and there wasn’t much in the cup but it stung all the same.

Music thudded the house, shaking it on its foundations, and John took Sherlock’s hand.

“Come and dance?” he asked and Sherlock nodded, throat suddenly dry.

They mde their way to the dance floor, hands interlocked, until they found an empty spot. Sherlock turned to face John and followed his lead, settling his hands on John’s shoulders as John’s fluttered to his hips.

“Look at me,” John asked and Sherlock did, locking on blue eyes. “Have you ever danced?”

“I can waltz,” Sherlock offered and John laughed.

“Follow my lead,” he grinned and then grinded against Sherlock, fingers digging into his skin and Sherlock’s eyes widened.

“John, we’re in public!” he cried over the music.

“This is how people dance, Sherlock,” John laughed, repeating the motion, and Sherlock suddenly understood the expression _sex on the dance floor_.

John looked up at him from under heavy eyelids and Sherlock swallowed. “This is gonna be our foreplay, okay?” John asked and Sherlock bit his lower lip.

“You’re gonna have to make it better than _this_ ,” Sherlock teased, holding his voice low and steady, and it was John’s turn to lick his lower lip.

“Put your hands in my hair,” John urged and Sherlock did, tugging at it as their hips ground against each other in tune to the music. He didn’t know who leaned first but one of them leaned and then they were kissing, right in front of all of John’s classmates.

John’s tongue had become as familiar to him as his own and he sucked at it as the older boy moaned in his mouth.

“Do you know what’s great about drunk sex?” John asked, leaving Sherlock’s mouth to trail kisses down Sherlock’s neck and the younger boy arched against John, sending more friction to their suddenly-tight jeans. “You can last _forever.”_

“Why are we still here?” Sherlock murmured in John’s ear, licking the shell and John suddenly agreed. They grabbed hands and ran outside to the car, making their goodbyes.

John started to drive, the highway utterly empty, but Sherlock was quite lightheaded and John looked so _edible_. Slowly, he slid his hand across the seats and onto John’s thigh.

“Sherlock-“ John warned.

“What?” Sherlock asked, innocently, his hand traveling higher, stopping to stroke the inside of John’s thigh, and the older boy shuddered.

“Take your hand off my thigh,” John ordered, and Sherlock smiled as his breath hitched.

“As you command,” Sherlock grinned and moved his hand to cup John through his jeans.

The car served violently left and Sherlock was sent hurtling back against the seat.

“Jesus,” John swore, turning red. “You’re gonna get us killed, Sherlock!”

“Then I suggest you pull over,” Sherlock recommended, his hand traveling back to John’s thigh and John did, pulling into an abandoned field.

“Sherlock, we are not having sex in a car-“ John tried to protest but Sherlock launched himself at the boy, biting and licking and worrying at his mouth.

“ _Ohhh,”_ John moaned softly as Sherlock pulled at John’s lower lip and held it between his teeth before letting it snap back. His hand never left the older boy’s crotch and he massaged at it as he stole kisses up and down John’s neck.

“I thought-“ John gasped,” you were bad- before. But drunk? You’re a devia _aaaaaaah,_ ” he sighed, his words tumbling into groans of pleasure.

“To the back,” Sherlock _growled_ and John obeyed, jumping over the seats to lay down across the back seat. Unceremoniously, Sherlock ripped John’s jeans and pants off. John had barely pulled in a breath before Sherlock took him in mouth and John shuddered.

“Your _mouth,_ Sherlock,” John moaned, twisting against the leather seats. “Second favorite part of you.”

Sherlock hummed around him and John was so glad he was slightly tipsy because otherwise he would have exploded by now.

“The first is your brain, don’t worry,” John promised him, running his fingers through Sherlock’s curls.

An idea hit John suddenly through his sex-ladled brain and he pulled Sherlock off. Both teens moaned at the loss of contact but then John was pulling Sherlock’s trousers and pants off and his hand wrapped around both their cocks.

“ _John,_ ” Sherlock gasped, surprised at the sensation.

“We don’t have lube, I’m sorry,” John murmured against Sherlock’s neck as he stroked them together.

“It’s fine, this is-“ Sherlock’s breath stopped as John’s thumb brushed across his slit and he _arched_ , desperately needing to be closer, closer.

“Sherlock,” John called to him and Sherlock tried to focus. “Can you look at me? Look at me.”

Sherlock did, their noses touching, and Sherlock bent the centimeter to rub them against each other and it was so intimate, John nearly cried.

“Oh god,” John cried softly, a sob rising in his throat, and Sherlock kissed him till he was dizzy, till he couldn’t see straight.

“John- I’m gonna,” Sherlock warned and John could have died, he had been waiting, hoping they could do it _together._

“Alright then love,” John beamed at him and Sherlock’s heart hurt and he was confused because everyone said love felt like sunshine and laughter but now it felt so intense it was ripping him apart at the seams and sewing him back together in the shape of John. “Let’s.”

And then Sherlock came, shuddering against John, as John unraveled beneath him and it was fireworks and sunshine and pure bliss.

“We’re gonna have to sneak into the house covered in come,” John muttered against Sherlock’s chest, who had chosen to drape himself boneless on top of the older boy.

“Please John, they all _know,_ ” Sherlock protested.

“Different than seeing,” John pointed out and Sherlock nodded. John groaned and sat up. “How am I going to drive? I feel dead.”

“We could… stay here a while,” Sherlock suggested, crawling up to rest his head against John’s chest.

“Of course love,” John smiled against the top of Sherlock’s head, threading fingers through his hair. “But it’s late. We’ll cuddle at home, promise.”

The drive home was far too long and their showers took forever, since they took them separately (John insisted they were not having shower sex for _a while_ , because it was particularly challenging and they needed more practice.) But finally, _finally_ , they crawled into John’s bed and under the covers, their fingers intertwined.

“John?” Sherlock whispered in the dark and John turned to him.

“Yes?” he asked, sleep heavy and bleary-eyes.

“You’re better than heroin,” the younger boy told him and John grinned sleepily at him.

“I love you too,” John said, kissing his forehead as they drifted off into sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, they're not very drunk. But poor John had to drive, I needed them to be safe.
> 
> Don't worry. There's plenty of time for proper drunk sex before the summer's over ;)


	9. Get me Wet

Sherlock was hung-over. There was no other word for it. His head was pounding, his throat felt dry, and everything was way too loud.

John was far too chipper, considering he’d drunk as much as Sherlock.

“Tolerance,” he laughed as they brushed their teeth, Sherlock wincing in the florescent lights. “I can hold more than you, you utter lightweight.”

“I want to go back to sleep,” Sherlock moaned into John’s shoulder, smearing toothpaste into the older boy’s shirt.

“Tough luck,” John said unsympathetically. “You are not leaving me to face breakfast alone, where your mum and Mycroft can tell I gave us hand jobs in the back of a car by the markings on my nails.

“Actually, it’d be by the slight twinge in your left wrist,” Sherlock informed him casually and John glared at him.

“It’s not _twinging_ ,” John insisted.

“Don’t be concerned,” Sherlock brushed off, spitting out a mouthful of foam. “It’s not something most people notice.”

John sighed. “I forgot what those people are like, honestly,” he groaned and Sherlock kissed him, all foamy mouth and minty breathed.

Breakfast was a loud affair. Mycroft had taken one look at the disheveled teens and had spent the meal conspicuously knocking his cutlery into each other.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he grinned as his knife hit the glass for the fourth time, sending shivers down the boys’ spines. “I’m so clumsy today.”

“Burn in hell, Mycroft,” Sherlock hissed, hunching lower in his dressing gown.

“Children!” Cynthia called from the head of the table and the boys immediately swiveled. “Vivi and I had the most fantastic idea!”

“Oh, don’t include me in this, Cynthia,” Victoria groaned but she smiled as Cynthia turned back to face the table.

“We want to go to a waterpark!” Cynthia said excitedly and four empty faces stared back at her.

John was the first to smile. “That sounds great Mum,” he agreed, shooting Sherlock a look.

Harry grinned too. “I haven’t been to a waterpark in ages. Are we going to the one in Devon?”

“I was thinking Staffordshire,” Cynthia admitted and Harry leaned closer to discuss.

The Holmeses were not nearly as excited.

”Mummy,” Sherlock started to protest. “We have a lake right here.”

“It’s an awfully long drive to Staffordshire, Mummy,” Mycroft pointed out. “Perhaps we’re best here.”

Victoria Holmes looked as though she quite agreed with her sons but shot a helpless look at Cynthia and the Watson children who were already planning lunches and discussing staying in a hotel.

“It shall be a new experience,” she tried to reassure her children. “Think of it as an experiment.”

Sherlock brightened a bit at the word and Mycroft sighed.

“It _sounds_ like legwork,” he complained and Harry stopped to push him.

“You big sloth,” she teased and Mycroft flushed. “It’ll be fun.”

“Do you even _own_ a swimming costume Mycroft?” Sherlock baited and Mycroft bristled.

“Of course,” he hissed at his younger brother and Sherlock raised one eyebrow.

“Really? I didn’t know they made whale sizes,” he teased and Victoria shot them both withering looks.

“Stop it, both of you,” she ordered and both boys looked down at their laps. John bit his lip to keep from giggling at the sight of the two Holmes boys looking like scolded puppies. “We are going and that is final.”

“Look, now you’ve upset Mummy,” Mycroft whispered and Sherlock gaped at him.

“ _I_ upset her? _Me?”_  he hissed back and John pulled him away.

“Let it go,” he urged and Sherlock did, pausing to stick his tongue out at Mycroft who gave him the most dignified two-finger salute John had ever seen.

“Everyone, go pack a bag,” Cynthia smiled, oblivious to the chaos at the end of the table. “We’ll drive down to Devon and spend a night. Make sure to pack your swimsuits!”

John practically raced upstairs and Sherlock followed wearily, grumbling the whole time. When he got upstairs, John was already throwing trunks and jeans onto the bed.

“How are you not excited?” John crowed, smiling at the younger boy. “Waterparks are the best.”

“We don’t really _do_ family trips,” Sherlock explained sitting on the edge of the bed and watching John run back and forth to his drawers.

“You _didn’t_ do family trips,” John reminded him. “You do now.”

“No one can say the Watson family had no effect on the Holmes,” Sherlock admitted with a grin and then quelled it.

“John,” he confessed, his voice a pitch lower, “I must say honestly I’ve never been to a waterpark.”

John paused to gape at him. “No,” he said incredulously.

“Eton doesn’t exactly take us on holidays,” Sherlock shrugged.

John shook his head, as though the idea of anyone not partaking in such a necessary ritual was insane.

“Well, we’re just gonna have to make it memorable,” he grinned and Sherlock found himself grinning back. John’s moods were contagious, and he often found himself emulating them, be they happy, sad, or boy-in-a-sweetshop excited.

Thirty minutes later, the two families piled into the back of the Holmes family car. Or rather, one of the Holmes family cars.

“Is this a limo?” John asked, sliding into the back. The seats sat circularly with a space in the middle for legs and a TV was mounted against the back of the car, showing news.

“No, that’s bigger,” Sherlock explained, sliding into one of the long seats.

“Sherlock, there’s a bloody fridge in the corner,” John pointed out.

Sherlock shrugged. “It’s a long drive,” he admitted and John sat next to him, shaking his head. Mycroft and Harry took up the seats across from them and Sherlock was surprised to see his mother and Cynthia take the far wall, leaning against the partition.

“Goodrington ma’am?” the driver asked from the front and Victoria nodded, pulling out her usual business newspaper and opening it up. Cynthia took out her sewing and the two sat comfortably next to each other, pointedly ignoring their children.

Which was fine with said children. Mycroft and Harry sat facing on another, whispering rapidly to each other. Every now and then, John could catch a word but it all seemed to be about Clara and someone Harry called, “the inspector” who John guessed must have been Greg. The second the car had started moving, Sherlock had sprawled out on the seats, resting his head in John’s lap. John read his book half-heartedly, fingering through Sherlock’s hair with his free hand.

The drive was only four hours and John had just come to the last chapter of his book when the car stopped and the passenger door opened.

“Thank you Grimsbey,” Victoria nodded to the driver. “I’ll call you when we are ready to head to the park.”

“Yes Ma’am,” Grimsbey nodded and John and Sherlock got out to find themselves by the front door of a hotel. The building was huge, with terraces that overlooked the ocean and grass around every corner. Within seconds, a hotel personnel and swooped down upon the family and was ushering them inside.

“Do you each want individual rooms-“ the hotel clerk droned and Victoria turned to survey her troops.

“My boys can share,” she said, looked at them and Sherlock and Mycroft burst into equally horrified faces. “John, can you share with Harry?”

John hadn’t shared a room with his sister since he was five but he found himself nodding anyway.

“And Cynthia, I’m sure you don’t mind staying with me?” Victoria checked and Cynthia nodded. “Well then, three double rooms, one night.”

The clerk listed the prices and Victoria stuck down her card, ignoring Cynthia’s protests. Sherlock and Harry were handed keys for their rooms and the four headed upstairs as Cynthia and Victoria handled business.

They second they were alone on the stairs, they turned to each other.

“John,” Mycroft smiled, all Cheshire cat, “care to switch rooms with me?”

“Not a problem,” John smiled back and handed Mycroft his key.

“This holiday just got significantly better,” Sherlock grinned at John as they walked to their hotel room. “And to think, for four whole minutes I was rooming with Mycroft,” he hissed and let out a shudder.

                                                                                ***

The room was huge, with two beds, an on suite bathroom and a bathtub big enough for six people. They quickly claimed the bed closest to the balcony, which overlooked the sea. John couldn’t help grinning like an idiot as he changed into his swim costume, looking around at the room.

“I will never get over how posh you all are,” John said in wonder, pulling up his trunks.

“You think this is posh,” Sherlock grumbled, pulling on his own trunks. “I don’t want you walking into Sebastian’s house. Your head might explode.”

“My head would have to explode for me to willingly walk into that sadist’s house,” John countered and Sherlock smiled.

“C’mon,” John urged, grabbing a towel. “Let’s get downstairs before they come looking for us and find Mycroft shrunk four inches.”

“Only four?” Sherlock teased and John flicked him with the towel.

“Alright, five,” he conceded and shushed Sherlock when he moved to counter. “Five, and let’s go.”

The two families gathered in the lobby and made their way back out to the car. Sherlock couldn’t help snickering at Mycroft, who looked as uncomfortable in his trunks and Sherlock felt. John was surprised to find that beneath Mycroft’s suits he was not even as close to fat as Sherlock teased. Harry was the only one who seemed comfortable in her choice of clothing, a green two-piece with a white tank on top.

“When we get to the park,” Cynthia laid out as they settled into the car, “you can go off on your own. But everyone meets at the entrance by closing time.”

“Yes mum,” everyone, including the Holmeses, chorused and Cynthia beamed.

“I’m going to take you on the Devil’s Drop,” John grinned wickedly at Sherlock and the younger boy’s ears perked up.

“Sounds dangerous,” he remarked, interested.

“Not really,” John confessed. “But a hell of an adrenaline spike.”

“I can work with that,” Sherlock smiled and that was all it took. They second they drew up in front of the park, the kids were out with a bang, running pell-mell to the slides.

“When we go down,” John offered as they ran up the queues. “I want to hear you scream.”

“That’s highly undignified,” Sherlock laughed, feeding off of John’s enthusiasm.

John winked at him. “That’s what we do.”

Soon enough they stood in front of the slide, looking down.

“This should be interesting,” Sherlock commented dryly and John laughed out loud.

“Indeed,” he grinned, moving closer. “Now scream for me.” And with that he pushed Sherlock down the 15 meter drop.

Sherlock felt his stomach drop out from under him as his arms crossed across his chest and he let out one (very manly) scream. And it wasn’t even for John.

He landed at the bottom with an almighty splash and looked up to find John grinning madly at him before he barreled down too, splashing water over the sides.

“That was ridiculous,” Sherlock laughed, letting John hug him.

“I take it you’re ready for the Kamikaze?” John teased and Sherlock grabbed his hand, pulling them forward.

They went on every ride, twice. It wasn’t particularly hard- there were only eight. But it was on their second turn on the rapids when things went sour.

“Oi, git,” John laughed, landing on top of Sherlock. “Get out of my face.

“I’m not in your face, I’m in my tube,” Sherlock countered.

“So get your tube out of my face,” John smirked.

“Make me,” Sherlock challenged and because they were teens and they were wet and it was hot and loud, they kissed. It wasn’t a messy kiss, or even one of their too-hot-to-look-at kisses. It was just a kiss and both boys were still laughing into each other’s open mouths when someone snarled,

“Faggot.”

John turned silently to face the speaker, a boy a few years older than them. “I’m sorry, come again?” John asked, voice steady.

“John,” Sherlock urged softly, scared of what he saw in John’s eyes. “Forget it, let’s just go.”

“You heard me, _faggot,”_ the boy said stonily. “I called you and your little poof, _faggots._ ”

John got up and stepped forward icily and Sherlock threw out a hand to hold John back. “John, please,” he begged as people began to stop and stare at the boys. “Let it go.”

John looked at Sherlock, eyes wide and actually frightened, and his shoulders visibly relaxed. “Fine,” he said softly, reaching up his thumb to graze Sherlock’s cheek. They turned to go when the boy snickered and muttered,

“Chicken-shit fairies.”

“Alright,” John said calmly, spinning around. “That’s it.” And he punched the boy in the jaw.

The boy stumbled back and before he could get up and retaliate, John had him by the chain around his neck, holding him close.

“Listen very carefully, you little fucker,” John whispered, leaning in close. “That _poof_ is Sherlock, the most brilliant man I know and you had best _watch your mouth_ or one day you might need his help.”

The boy looked at John in utter terror as John’s knee came up dangerously close to his crotch. “Now apologize,” John snarled and the boy stammered out an “I’m sorry.”

“Good,” John finished, dropping the boy and turning back to Sherlock. They started to walk away when the boy caught up to them from behind and tackled John to the ground.

“Security!” someone yelled and the boy was wrenched off of John, who lay on the ground. “What the hell are you doing?” they yelled at the boy.

“He punched me first!” the boy protested.

“He’s on the ground!” one of the security officers yelled.

“He’s lying sir,” Sherlock said, stepping up and turning on his charm. “I saw the whole thing. He attacked unprovoked.”

“Don’t listen to that faggot!” the boy yelled and the officers hauled him by his chain.

“Alright, let’s go,” they sighed and dragged the boy out, kicking and screaming.

One officer stayed behind and helped John up. “You okay son?” he asked and John brushed himself off.

“Right as rain,” he smiled.

“Look, we’re kicking him out. Is there something-“ the officer tried but John just smiled.

“It’s fine,” he said, taking Sherlock’s hand. “Some people are just scared of things they don’t understand.”

The officer took in their clasped hands and nodded, a bit surprised. “Well, if you start hurting come down to the front,” he told them and walked off.

The second he was gone, John burst out laughing. “You utter berk,” he cried, clutching his sides. “Coming up and just lying-“

“Are you alright?” Sherlock cut him off, inspecting John carefully.

“I’m fine, you lug,” John smiled, brushing his hands off. “Don’t worry.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said softly, looking down.

John’s eyes widened. “Why are _you_ sorry?” he asked incredulously.

“You were never- he never would’ve-“ Sherlock struggled to explain how it was he who took John from his safe heterosexual lifestyle and threw him into _this_ , a world Sherlock had spent his whole life preparing for but which John had no experience dealing with.

“Shit, Sherlock,” John cursed, taking Sherlock’s head in his hands. “I love you. And no bell-end with half a brain is going to change that, okay?”

“I just-“ Sherlock stammered. “I don’t want you getting hurt because of me.”

“Are you forgetting he insulted me too?” John laughed. “I had to defend both our honors.”

Sherlock stared in shock at the teen, a boy who so profoundly _did not care_ what anyone else thought that it blew him away and filled him head to toe in pounding love that rushed through his ears and lit him on fire.

“My big, brave John,” Sherlock murmured, running his hands up John’s bare chest. “Protecting me from evil men.”

“Forever,” John promised and as they kissed, the park applauded.

                                                                                ***

Sherlock hadn’t expected to feel so wiped out, standing by the exit and waiting for the car to come. And yet he was practically falling asleep on John’s shoulder, towel in hand.

“Did everyone have a good time?” Cynthia asked and the four kids nodded, slumped on each other.

“Excellent idea,” Victoria whispered to Cynthia, hand on her shoulder. “Brilliant.”

Cynthia flushed, the very picture of her son, and Grimsbey pulled the car up and held the door open as they piled in.  Sherlock fell asleep on the ride back to the hotel and John helped him climb the stairs, sleep-heavy and disorientated.

“C’mon, you need to shower,” John prompted, closing their hotel room door behind them.

“Imma shower in the morning,” Sherlock said sleepily.

John sighed. “Shame,” he said stripping off his tank, “such a waste of a huge tub.”

Sherlock had never been more awake in his life. Like an animal, he pounced on John, pulling various articles of clothing off.

“That’s all it takes to wake you up?” John laughed but he helped Sherlock strip as the bathtub filled behind them and after a minute, they got in. Sherlock yelped, it was hotter than he expected and John sat down across from him, laughing softly.

For a minute they just stared at each other, both breathing a bit unevenly. Then, in an almost husky voice, John reached out a hand across the tub.

“C’mer,” he smiled and Sherlock did, settling next to John so they were nose and nose. John took Sherlock’s face in his hands and kissed him softly, mouths barely moving against each other. John’s hands made their way up and down Sherlock’s chest, barely skimming his nipples and it was starting to drive the younger boy crazy as he deepened and deepened the kiss, driving in harder.

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Sherlock finally gave up as John’s fingers flicked against his nipples for the fifth time. He moved over to straddle John’s lap, pulling him closer and rubbing together as they kissed, prompting moans from both boys.

Sherlock reached down and began stroking at John’s cock and the older boy suddenly lost all concentration.

“I- Sher- can we-“ he stuttered as the soapy water acted as lube and Sherlock moved so slowly, desperately trying to remember what John had done last night to make this feel amazing.

“Hush,” Sherlock ordered, bending in closer to suck at John’s neck. “I’m concentrating.” And as he sucked a hickey into the exposed skin, he suddenly remembered what John had done and rubbed one finger over his slit.

“Jesus Christ,” John startled from the jolt of both pain and pleasure and with a bang Sherlock slid off John’s lap and onto the bathtub floor, hitting it hard.

There was silence as both boys returned to themselves and then realized what had just happened.

“This is awkward,” Sherlock grumbled finally from the marble bottom, pain shooting up his back from the impact.

“Sherlock, I’m so sorry,” John cried, kneeling down next to him. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Sherlock brushed off, trying to control the urge to rub his sore back.

“I knew we were too inexperienced for shower sex,” John muttered, moving to rub Sherlock’s back and the younger boy could have cried in relief.

“Technically, this is a bathtub,” Sherlock pointed out and John laughed against Sherlock’s wet skin. “Are you okay?” Sherlock asking, remembering he’d just effectively blue-balled John.

“Yeah,” John sighed. “Went away the second I realized you were hurt.”

That shouldn’t have been the least bit romantic and yet Sherlock found it warmed him a bit. He really was all cross-wired.

“Well,” Sherlock drawled, back suddenly feeling better. “Just because bathtub sex is out, does that mean sex is out in general?”

John’s breath hitched. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmured and Sherlock grinned wickedly.

                                                                                ***

In the morning, they met in the lobby before heading out to the car. As they waited in the cool air-conditioning for Grimsbey to bring the car around, Sherlock found himself alone with Mycroft.

“Sleep well, little brother?” Mycroft said casually, gazing down at the younger boy.

“Perfectly fine,” Sherlock retorted, hoping their conversation quota for the day was filled.

But Mycroft was just getting started. “You’ve very lucky Mummy took a room on another floor. Imagine how appalled she would have been to hear such _noises_ coming from the room two _brothers_ were supposed to be sharing?”

“What noises?” Sherlock asked, ordering his body not to blush.

“Oh please Sherlock, you are quite loud,” Mycroft teased mercilessly.

“I am _not_ loud,” Sherlock insisted.

“Yes you are,” Harry said, coming over.

“Yes love, you are,” John agreed, walking in next to his sister and the two of them high-fived. Sherlock blinked.

“Jealous, Mycroft?” Sherlock said, finally settling on a method of insult.

“Of you? Not particularly- no offense John,” Mycroft nodded.

“None taken,” John shuddered.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a call to take,” Mycroft said, pulling out his ringing mobile and moving to the corner of the lobby. John was sure the whole hotel could see the older man’s face light up as he answered the phone, leaning against the wall.

“Puppy love,” Sherlock sneered disgustedly at his brother’s back. “Utterly horrid.”

And with that he took John’s hand and leaned down to kiss his cheek chastely. “I much prefer our way,” he whispered.

“And what’s our way?” John asked, looking up into indescribable eyes that he could draw in his sleep.

“Devotion,” Sherlock grinned and John loved those eyes.

“Get a room,” Harry groaned, turning away.

“You don’t like us _in_ a room, you don’t like us _out,_ do try and make up your mind,” Sherlock said dryly and then turned John around to kiss him soundly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who gives you guys long, fluffy chapters? I do! Holy bejesus, I love you guys.


	10. Play me Quiet

It was August. Neither of them realized as the calendar pages turned but suddenly it was a week into August and John had three weeks left in England.

Neither of them said anything. They didn’t have to. John took longer in bed, smoothing Sherlock’s hair back from his forehead achingly tender, studying him the best he knew how. Sherlock started holding John’s hand everywhere, in the bedroom, the bathroom, the kitchen, the gardens. When they ran. That one was a big change and John raised an eyebrow the first time Sherlock took his hand as they left the mansion in darkness, but Sherlock just squeezed tighter and John said nothing.

Then the letter came. It was such a small letter, just a few sentences reminding him just where he needed to report to at eight am on August 29. Sherlock walked into the kitchen, took one look at the letter addressed to John Watson, Esquire, and turned right around.

“Sherlock!” John yelled after him, holding the letter in his hands, but the boy simply walked upstairs and the sound of the bedroom door reverberated through the kitchen.

“Let it be,” Mycroft advised from his position at the table, buttering toast. “He needs to process.”

“He’s not the one going to the bloody army,” John muttered and Mycroft spared him one withering look.

“You constantly underestimate how much he cares for you,” Mycroft said softly and John shook his head. He knew Sherlock cared for him, every now and then he even imagined he loved him. But there was no way Sherlock loved John as much as John loved Sherlock. It wasn’t physically possible.

Sherlock felt like he was breaking.

 _You knew this was going to happen_ , his brain, ever the voice of reason, reminded him. _You’ve know this for months. A letter changes nothing._

 _There was still a chance though_ , he realized, shocked at his own delusions. He really had dreamed of it all fading away, of John changing his mind. Of it all being a cosmic mistake. That letter changed everything.

There was a small chorus of voices that occupied a bench in Sherlock’s mind palace. He’d tried deleting them ages ago but they just took on new faces and settled back on the bench outside the palace. Now they smiled at him and he recognized the addition of that horrible new detective Anderson amongst the chorus. They always shifted, but three faces always stayed- Sebastian, Jim, his father.

 _For the best really,_ they encouraged. _He was bound to leave you. At least this way it’ll be delayed six years._

 _You’re not lovable_ they reminded him. That was their primary job, reminding him. _You are incapable of relationships. A team of psychologists can’t all be wrong. You were bound to hurt him. At least he’s safe now._

Sherlock had never been able to categorize the feeling that gripped him whenever John looked at him. Or even when John didn’t. It was like his stomach was twisting itself into knots as his brain suddenly reorganized itself, files throwing themselves against walls to make room for one word. _John_.

It wasn’t love. That was far too pedestrian and underwhelming. It wasn’t addiction. He’d broken addiction. He couldn’t break John.

“Hey,” a voice said softly from the doorway, shaking Sherlock out of his thoughts. Only John could do that, waltz into his mind palace uninvited, and sit right down on the sofa. “You wanna talk?”

Sherlock scoffed from his position on his bed. He was ashamed to realize he’d drawn his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around himself in a parody of a hug.

“Didn’t think so,” John laughed softly, sitting down on the edge of the bed. There was a beat of silence as they stared at each other. Not twelve hours ago, Sherlock had been hovered above that face on all fours, watching it flush deliciously. Now, it was impassive. He couldn’t read John.

“It’s okay to be upset,” John said softly.

“I’m not upset,” Sherlock bit out. The lie was so laughably obvious it bordered on sad but John said nothing.

“What if you don’t come back?” he asked, surprised as the question left his lips.

“I will,” John said, utterly serious.

“You can’t promise that,” Sherlock reminded him.

“And yet I am,” John said, typically stubborn, and Sherlock loved him so much.

“I-“ he tried and failed, words escaping him. “I wrote you a piece. When we first… fought. I wanted to-“

John’s face was like Christmas. His eyes lit up as he grasped the meaning of what Sherlock was saying and within seconds, he’d taken the younger boy’s face in his hands, grazing cheekbones.

“Oh love,” he whispered, inches from Sherlock. “You composed something for me?”

“About you,” he let out a small smile. “I call it Sonata in John.”

John laughed, loud and eager and it eased Sherlock. He could identify John across Greater London by that laugh alone. Pressed for time, he could identify him by his intake of breath right before he laughed.

“Well?” John goaded, pushing Sherlock off the bed and occupying the Sherlock-shaped space in the sheets, arms folded behind his head. “Let me hear it.”

Sherlock took his violin from his desk and raised it to his chin, closing his eyes. He wrote this piece in a haze of tubes and drugs meant to save his life from other drugs, in the mother of all ironies.

_“I don’t want to hear from you again, do I make myself plain?”_

No words had ever made him want to kill himself more than those, uttered in anger and not meant in the slightest. He had never apologized, properly anyway, for shutting John out of his life for two months. He’d suffered for it. Punished beyond the limits of the Geneva Convention. And now John was leaving, possibly for good, and he-

The first few notes were torture. They were supposed to be. They came out high and painful and John could hear in them the soft keening of a boy left alone. And then the piece began, beautiful and rich, as Sherlock catalogued every part of his John, _hair, chest, hands, legs._

 _Ocean eyes,_ he let himself breathe out as the piece became calm, utter peace and safety and John let out a tiny gasp. He let himself get lost in a swirl of notes, following the pitch, lower and lower, in a spiral. That was why he loved to play. Few things cleared his mind so starkly. Heroin was one. John was another.

He had hated to play. Father had made them, on one of his whims, and he’d hated it. Mycroft had chosen piano and Sherlock hated the prat for the way his fingers, thin as a boy of eight, had caressed those keys and earned him half smiles from their impassive father.

 _It will be easier if you try to enjoy it,_ Mycroft had prompted and Sherlock had been four and still thought Mycroft hung the moon. So he tried. And like magic, it had silenced his brain and that was it. He was addicted.

He set the violin down with a soft sigh and John looked at him from the bed, breathless.

“That was for me?” John asked and it was such a _stupid question_ but Sherlock didn’t say that. Instead he nodded and blinked and John was in front of him, hugging him so tightly Sherlock couldn’t breathe. Not like wanted to.

“I love you,” John whispered.

A million requests clouded Sherlock’s mind. _Don’t leave me_ his brain shouted to say but that was wrong, _wrong,_ John needed to go, John would be happy and John needed to be happy. _I want to cut you open and crawl inside of you_ but that was a bit not good, but John would understand that was how he loved, that was the only way he knew how. _I wish we met as children, as babies, as atoms still drifting in a vast nebula and still, still, that wouldn’t have been long enough._

“I love you too,” he said instead, even though it was sentiment, even though it wasn’t enough, because it was a close as he could get.

“We still have time,” John insisted.

“No,” Sherlock shook his head, kissing John’s temple. “But it’s okay. I’m okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovelies! I'm afraid I have some bad-ish news. I'm doing Camp Nanowrimo, so I'm going to be a little crazy for the next month. Don't worry, the series isn't ending, nor is it going on hiatus. But these every-days posts are ending for a bit.
> 
> I'm terribly sorry! Don't worry though, John and Sherlock still have much to do. All my love- Shay
> 
>  
> 
> p.s. I'm always open to suggestions for what our boys should do this summer.


	11. Leave me Lonely

Sherlock was dreaming. He hated dreaming, as his dreams were often bloody and violent, filled with syringes and doctors in white coats and broken blonde boys in pools of blood.

But this was a soft dream, quiet and lovely, and it was with a lazy ease that he awoke to the hand on his shoulder.

“Sherlock," the voice whispered and Sherlock blinked his eyes open to find John standing there in the early morning dawn, fully dressed. “Wake up.”

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock mumbled, unconcerned. John was not displaying any signs of stress.

“Get dressed, you git,” John ordered, smiling madly. “We’re going to a fair.”

 

Mycroft had cornered John the night before after dinner. Sherlock had already bounded upstairs for his allotted “science time,” that he and John had agreed upon, and John suddenly found himself alone with Mycroft in the parlor.

“John,” he smiled, holding out two tickets. “There’s a fair about three hours from here in Hampshire tomorrow. I thought you and Sherlock might like to go.”

John looked at the boy warily. “Will there be assassins at this fair?” he asked carefully.

Mycroft laughed. It wasn’t a good look on him, one of utter merriment, and John hoped he’d go back to his impassive face soon. “I’m actually trying to be nice, John.”

“Doubtful,” John muttered and then regretted it. It was Sherlock’s job to doubt Mycroft. He was supposed to be the one giving him second chances.

“Thank though,” he tried again, smiling, and taking the tickets from Mycroft. “Now tell me what this is really about.”

Mycroft gave him the very same suffering-mortals look Sherlock so loved. John wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d learned it from his older brother. “Must I always have ulterior motives?”

“No,” John conceded. “But this is so fishy, it stinks. So out with it.”

Mycroft looked down. “Harry’s meeting with Clara tomorrow and I rather hoped to have the house to myself.”

Oh. _Oh._ John couldn’t help looking at the man, still a kid really of only 22, with a mix of sympathy and worry.

“Mycroft-“ John stared and stopped himself. “I shouldn’t. it’s not my business. I don’t even want to know really.”

“Out with it, John,” Mycroft said, parodying his words. “Best not keep these things bottled up.”

“It’s just-“ John made sure to look the taller boy in the eye. “Is he still married?”

Mycroft stared at a spot of wall just left of John’s head. “Technically. They’re not living together though.”

“Christ,” John swore and the older boy turned to stare at him. “I just- I don’t want you getting hurt Mycroft.”

Mycroft gave him a sad sort of smile. “Oh John, don’t you know? I don’t have a heart,” he said softly, turning around. “Just ask Sherlock.”

And then he left John alone in the parlor, two tickets to the Hampshire fair in his hand and a bad taste in his mouth.

 

“Fairs are for children,” Sherlock sulked in the front seat of the Chevy. It was just around nine am and they’d been driving for over three hours.

“And you’re just an overgrown child,” John reminded him. “You’ll love it. They have a dog park.”

“I abhor dogs,” Sherlock protested, sinking even further in his seat than John though possible, just the tips of his black curls visible over the dash.

 “You _love_ dogs,” John laughed. “You practically died over that spaniel in London.”

“That’s because dogs in London are a rarity,” Sherlock excused.

“Hardly,” John said, turning the wheel as they switched from the highway to a smaller road. “I’ll get you a funnel cake.”

Sherlock looked up at him with giant gray eyes. “What on earth is a funnel cake?” he asked.

John shook his head in shock. “It’s like I’m dating an alien,” he marveled. “Or someone who’s been living under a rock for years.”

“I know the important things,” Sherlock insisted, growing angry.

“What on earth will you do if someone gets murdered by a funnel cake?” John questioned, laughing at his own joke. “You’d be clueless.”

“Not funny,” Sherlock sulked and John parked the car, leaning over to kiss the offended boy.

It was a slow sort of kiss, soft and gentle, and Sherlock sighed into it, sitting up to wrap his hand in John’s hair. John’s thumb traced back and forth across Sherlock’s cheekbone as he kissed him, smiling all the while.

“Don’t get mad,” John asked, leaning back to kiss his nose. “We’re going to have fun.”

“Positive re-enforcement John,” Sherlock pointed out, sliding out of the car. “If that’s how you respond to my getting mad, I’m going to do it more often.”

“Bloody hell,” John shook his head, following his slightly crazy friend out to the fair ground.

It was an absolute dream. John held Sherlock’s hand as they went from booth to booth. John was a crack shot, it appeared, and an hour in, he won Sherlock an oversized bear.

“I think we should name it Smokey,” John suggested as they walked towards the foods area.

“It’s stuffed, it hardly needs a name,” Sherlock scoffed but John noticed he held the bear closely against his hip, one arm wrapped around it protectively.

John laughed. “Name it what you like. But it’s getting a name,” he insisted, walking up to one of the vendors and ordering.

Sherlock looked at the bear contemplatively for a moment. It was a light soft brown, with big button eyes and neat stitching. Soft, cuddly, but hardly fragile.

“I think I’ll name him John,” Sherlock mused out loud as John handed him a corndog.

John started. “After me?” he asked, looking at the bear. “Am I really that fat?”

Sherlock gave him a look. “He just looks like a John. And besides, he’s going to have to keep me company when you’re-“ _gone_ was the unspoken word and both boys heard it, loud and clear.

“That’s a big job,” John said evenly, looking firmly at the bear.

“He’s a big bear,” Sherlock noted and John turned to kiss him, quickly and without any frills.

“Don’t get too comfortable with him,” John said, voice a bit broken, but Sherlock had the good sense not to point it out. “I’ll be back before you know.”

“Impossible,” Sherlock tried a laugh. “I know everything.”

“Eat your corn dog,” John ordered and Sherlock did. It was good.

They went over to the “Have a Go” sports and John tried archery. He was still laughing over an arrow of his that had gone wide when Sherlock came up behind him and stole the bow.

“Show me how,” he ordered, notching an arrow as he’d seen John do.

John spun around. “Christ Sherlock, don’t point that at me,” John cried, stepping back.

Sherlock ignored him. “So I just notch it like so, and then point?” he clarified.

“Basically,” John said warily, still backed up.

Sherlock closed one eye and then loosed the arrow. It hit the board with a thunk and the surrounding families fell silent.

“Bull’s-eye,” John said softly, looking at Sherlock in newfound wonder.

“It’s just a matter of simply math, figuring the trajectory,” Sherlock excused, looking around, and then someone applauded.

 “Come off it,” John laughed, applauding with everyone else. “You’re just good at everything, you utter berk.”

“I’m dismal at badminton,” Sherlock offered and then loosed another perfect arrow.

They spent close to four hours, just playing every sport and stuffing themselves with ridiculous fair food. As the fair started to wind down, John suddenly stopped.

“I still haven’t gotten you a funnel cake!” he cried, rounding on Sherlock as if angry at him for not reminding him.

“I think I’ll survive,” Sherlock drawled but John wasn’t satisfied.

“Wait here,” he ordered, turning around and running off. “I’ll be right back.”

The fair grounds were starting to empty and Sherlock suddenly felt very cold. He held John-the-Bear a bit closer and looked around, waiting for John.

That’s when he spotted them, two teens coming over to him from the crowd, and his throat ran dry.

“Jim,” he said weakly, as the boy approached. “What are you doing here?”

“You told the police about me, Sherly,” Jim said, turning his head to better gaze at Sherlock. “I had to get the police off my case. Do you have any idea how _annoying_ that is?”

“Who is that?” Sherlock tried to distract him, nodding at the hulk of a teen behind the skinny boy.

“No one of your concern,” Jim smiled. “But you can call him Moran if he must have a name. Where’s your pet?”

“John isn’t my pet,” Sherlock insisted, his heart thudding painfully in his chest. He would never admit it out loud to anyone, but Jim scared him. Few things scared him, because he understood them. Understood what made them tick, what made them work. You couldn't be scared of something you understood. But no matter how hard he tried, he could not understand Jim. And that frightened him.

“They’re so interesting, aren’t they? Ordinary people,” Jim went on as though Sherlock hadn’t spoken. “That’s half the reason I keep Moran around, really. Well, that and his wonderful taste for violence.”

“What do you want?” Sherlock asked, trying not to notice as he held the bear tighter.

“I just want to _talk_ , Sherly. Why don’t we talk?” Jim offered, smiling at him.

“I won’t help you,” Sherlock hissed, backing up.

Jim laughed out loud, shaking his head, and the sound chilled Sherlock.

“Oh Sherly, how long until you learn that NOT EVERYTHING IS ABOUT YOU!” he yelled suddenly, frightening Sherlock. The boy was unhinged.

“Your brother is still sleeping with the DI, right?” Jim checked and Sherlock’s silence was enough. “Perfect. Now come, let’s take a walk.”

“And if I refuse?” Sherlock tried, gazing carefully.

“Then Moran will try and convince you,” Jim said calmly. “He may not be very good at elocution, but he is _rather_ persuasive.”

“John-“ Sherlock started and Jim cut him off with a wave of his hand.

“Has nothing to do with this,” Moriarty insisted. “Unless you keep protesting. In which case-“

“I’ll come,” Sherlock said quickly and Jim grinned.

“Good choice,” he smiled and then looked at the bear. “You can leave the animal.”

In response, Sherlock only held it closer and Jim shrugged.

“Suit yourself,” he huffed and then turned around, not even bothering to look if Sherlock was following. “Let’s go then.

And then Sherlock followed the two boys out of the fair ground and into the waiting black car.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the Hampshire fair is in May, lovelies, and doesn't have half these things. I took great artistic liberties :)
> 
> Ooh, and now that I'm not updating as often, I get to do cliffhangers! Marvalous!


	12. Save me Slowly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? Two chapters in two days? I just can't stay away from you guys ;)

In terms of an evil lair, there was a lot to be desired in the room Moriarty brought Sherlock to.

“He’s got another one, boss,” Moran announced from the corner, holding Sherlock’s phone. The room was small and square, with no windows and only one door, and even for irony’s sake a naked light bulb hanging from a wire. Sherlock was in a chair in the center of the room, hands tied behind his back, and John-the-Bear sat precariously next to the chair.

“Ooh, your pet’s persistent, Sherly,” Jim laughed from where he leaned against the door. “Read it out loud.”

Moran opened the phone to read John’s text, as he had done for the last six texts. “Seriously Sherlock, where are you? This really isn’t funny anymore.”

“So dedicated, ordinary people,” Jim laughed, taking a drag on one of the cigarette he nicked from Sherlock’s pocket. “It’s adorable.”

“What do you want from me, Jim?” Sherlock sighed, exhausted. He felt like he’d been here for hours.

Jim glared at him. “How many times do I have to tell you, not everything is about you?” he sighed, sitting down on a chair facing Sherlock, leaning on the back of the chair.

“I beg to differ,” Sherlock drawled and Jim just raised one eyebrow. Sherlock had to make him snap. That was the only way he was going to get information out of the psychopath.

“I used to think you were _soooo_ interesting,” Jim groaned and Sherlock’s head shot up against his will. “But you’re just like the rest of them. Falling in love with such an _ordinary_ person.”

Sherlock wanted to protest that John was as far from ordinary as one could get but Jim had to monologue. That was his thing.

“Your _brother_ on the other hand, he’s fascinating,” Jim grinned and Sherlock tried not to show as his heart began hammering in his throat. “He never told you just what his job is, did he? Oh, _sooo_ interesting.

“We’ve been playing this little game, him and me, for the past year now,” Jim explained, relishing the pained expressions that crossed Sherlock’s face. The man could deal with just about anything except the idea his brother was better than him. “Ever since he took that internship last year. Competing to see who was more _powerful_.”

Sherlock’s cell phone chimed and both geniuses turned to the corner where Moran, without any prompts, read, “For gods sake Sherlock, you promised you’d stop running off places. What happened this time?”

“Adorable,” Jim commented, smiling. “Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, your brother is more interesting than you,” he laughed and Sherlock flinched as if struck. “He was getting ahead in the points, you see. Disgusting. But then I pulled that stint in February…”

Sherlock’s eyes widened against his will. He had been in rehab most of February for a drug overdose. A drug Jim had given him-

“Do you really think someone like me didn’t have anything better to do than play drug dealer to spoiled rich kids?” Jim said, grinning at the look of horror that spread across Sherlock’s face. “Or did you really think you were that important?”

Sherlock was silent. That was his only defense now, his silence. Jim had enough to destroy him with as it was.

“That got me quite a bit ahead,” Jim went on, untroubled. “But then he got that job in the British government. He didn’t happen to mention what it was, did he? Just how much he could _do-_ “

“You’re going to blackmail him,” Sherlock tried, desperate.

“ _Wrong_!” Jim yelled, spinning around. “No, no, no, there’s nothing Mycroft can do in the British Government that I can’t do myself. _Yet._ I do expect that will change.”

He sat back down in his chair to face the genius and smile so wickedly, it chilled Sherlock to the bone.

“No, this is just to remind him that no matter how _powerful_ he gets, I will always be stronger,” Jim said softly and Sherlock’s blood ran cold.

“You’re going to kill me,” he whispered and Jim slapped him across the face.

“Wrong again!” he shouted, turning maniacal. “Two for two, you’re losing your touch Sherly. No,” he stopped and moved the chair away, turning to face Sherlock head on. “We’re just going to send a message.”

And then he took his lit cigarette and held it to Sherlock’s collarbone.

                                                                                                ***

John was going out of his mind. After the first hour Sherlock was gone, he’d broken down and called Mycroft. He’d spent the next hour in a rest station with Mycroft, going over every bit of information he remembered from the fair. It wasn’t until the third hour after Sherlock had disappeared that Mycroft finally got a call.

“Yes, yes. We’re on our way,” Mycroft said briskly, closing the phone. “They found him,” he turned to John and the teen spun on him.

“Where?” John cried, as they ran out to the car.

“By the side of the highway,” Mycroft said, opening the driver’s side as John jumped in the back. “He’s alive.”

Sherlock really was by the side of the highway, sitting not in a police car as John had expected, but with a man of about thirty, with thick hair and a suit not unlike Mycroft’s.

“Thank you Jones,” Mycroft said briskly, shaking the man’s hand and the man got into his car and drove off without a comment. But John barely noticed as he fell upon Sherlock.

The boy was a mess. Four livid bruises highlighted his face and his sleeves were torn to show off rows of bruises, cuts and cigarette burns. His hair was a greasy mess of curls and he held John-the-Bear in his hand like a talisman, clinging to it for dear life.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John cried, running his hands over the raised flesh. “What the hell happened?”

“Get him in the car, John,” Mycroft ordered, glancing around nervously at the road, and John did, helping the utterly silent boy into the car and closing the door. The second they were inside, Mycroft turned on the engine and started driving.

“Moriarty sends his regards,” Sherlock said once they started moving and Mycroft nodded.

“Don’t tell Mummy anything,” Mycroft ordered, his eyes on the road.

“Obviously,” Sherlock clipped and John’s eyes practically bugged out of his skull.

“Not obviously!” he cried, turning on the two brothers. “We’re calling your mum, the police, hell we need to take him to a hospital-“

“I’m not badly injured,” Sherlock said and John spluttered. “I’m not, John. Moriarty was careful. These just look bad, that was the point. It wouldn’t have done him any good to kill me.”

“We can’t go to the police,” Mycroft insisted, not turning around. “Moriarty will just buy himself off and then he’ll be angrier. Let him think he’s won this round.”

“I dare say he has,” John cried, close to hysterics. “This isn’t a game, Mycroft!”

“Yes it is,” Sherlock put it from his seat in the back. “It’s the most dangerous game ever played. Although I would appreciate if you left me out of your games in the future Mycroft.”

“I tried!” Mycroft yelled suddenly, shattering his calm. The car was silent as the older boy regained him cool and went on, unflustered. “I told him you weren’t fair game. He laughed.”

“I don’t-“ Sherlock tried, confused, and Mycroft went on.

“Do you know what he told me?” Mycroft informed the boys. “Once, when our paths crossed in person. He told me he’d burn the heart out of me.”

There was a beat of silence in the car before Sherlock said, offhandedly,

“Obviously he didn’t do his research or he’d realize I’m hardly the _heart_ of you-“

“Oh shut up!” John yelled and two pairs of eyes turned on the smaller boy. “Both of you! I’m sick and tired of you both moaning on and on about how no one cares about you! Jesus Christ!”

He turned on Sherlock, face livid, and Sherlock shrunk back in his seat. “He cares about you Sherlock. For god’s sake, he’s your brother! He loves you, you goddamn idiot! He nearly went out of his skin worrying when you disappeared.”

He turned his wrath on Mycroft next. “And you! This is your fault, you know, always insisting you don’t have a heart. God, you both have the worst case of martyrdom complex I’ve ever seen!

“People care about you, both of you! I care about you. Your mum cares about you, _my_ mum cares about you. For Christ’s sake, you care about each other! Could you both act like full-grown adults and just admit you’re people with emotions and feelings and you love each other, _Jesus Christ_.”

The car was so silent you could hear a pin drop. Neither brother said a word as John’s words sunk in around them, filling the car with a tension so thick you could cut it. Softly, from the back, Sherlock said,

“I-“

“No talking,” John ordered, crossing his arms and leaning against the seat. “I’m done with both of you for the day.”

Sherlock looked over at him and tried again, “Can we please pull over?”

“Why?” John asked, not looking at him.

“I think I need to throw up,” Sherlock said weakly and John turned to him, crying “shit” softly as Mycroft turned to car off into a rest stop. They had barely parked when Sherlock was running out of the car and into the rest stop bathroom, locking the door.

“Sherlock,” John called through the door, “are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock called back. ‘I just-“ he was cut off by the sound of retching.

“Let me in, love,” John begged through the door.

“I’m alright, I just need a minute-“ Sherlock tried before he retched again.

Mycroft came over and laid one hand on John’s shoulder. “He’ll be okay. He’s embarrassed to have you listen, step away,” he advised and John did, following him back to the car. They stood outside, it, leaning carefully on the metal, when John swore.

“Christ, I shouldn’t have yelled at you both,” he said softly, running a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry.”

“You were right,” Mycroft said back calmly and John stared at him. “We have this habit of acting like rather immature children around each other.”

He was quiet, looking out over the parking lot. The sun was setting, casting bright rays over the asphalt, and it caught Mycroft, making his hair look positively red.

“I tried to be something stable for him, after our father left,” Mycroft said, not looking at John. “I often think I wasn’t enough.”

“No one could have been enough,” John said comfortingly. “You were just a kid yourself, you shouldn’t have had to play parent.”

“You did for him what I never could do, John,” Mycroft said, finally looking at him. “I am forever grateful.”

John was silent. There was absolutely nothing he could think to say to this man, forced to play father before he was ready, only to think himself a failure.

“One day, that will be you,” Mycroft said suddenly, pointing at the bathroom where Sherlock puked his guts out. “I am more interesting than he is for now, but I expect that to change. I say that not as a brother,” he said, addressing John’s shocked face, “but as a genius, in my own right.

“He will be more interesting than me, one day. And when he is, people will want to hurt him. They’ll hurt you, John,” Mycroft told him, looking firmly at the teen. “They’ll kidnap you and torture you to get to him. You’re his heart John, and they’ll try to burn you.”

He was silent again, not looking at anything more than the setting sun. “Perhaps it’s good you’re going to the army,” he said solemnly. “You’ll learn how to kill a man.”

“Would you kill for him?” Mycroft asked, looking over at the rest stop bathroom.

John didn’t hesitate. “Yes,” he said, following Mycroft’s gaze.

“Good,” was all the older brother had to say before the bathroom door opened and a haggard-looking Sherlock came out. John ran to hold him, helping him to the car, while the older Holmes watched, impassive, as the sun set on them.

                                                                                                ***

They snuck into the house without alerting either of the mums. John took Sherlock upstairs to the bathroom, to check over his wounds. Mycroft went with them up the stairs but after a curt nod from John, he separated and headed towards his room.

“I wasn’t lying when I said they weren’t anything serious,” Sherlock said, sitting on the closed toilet, as John vested him of his shirt and took down the first aid kit. “He was just trying to send a message.”

John kept his mouth firmly shut, covering a cotton ball in hydrogen peroxide and starting to swab at the cuts and burns.  Sherlock hissed as the cleaner made contact with his skin and bit his lip to keep from yelling.

“You’re not a doctor, silly. Not yet,” Sherlock teased, reaching up one hand to ruffle John’s hair.

“Doesn’t take a genius to clean a cut,” John muttered and glared at the boy. “You really won’t let me take you to the A&E? We don’t even have to tell Mycroft.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t need it. Promise.”

John noticed for the first time that Sherlock was still holding his bear. It was matted in places with Sherlock’s blood but he was intact. Sherlock was right, it was hardly fragile.

“Looks like John-the-Bear had an adventure,” John tried a joke and Sherlock spared him a small smile.

“He was a good friend to have,” Sherlock said shakily, clutching the bear and John cleaned the rest of his wounds, putting on ointment and bandages.

He set to covering the cigarette burn on Sherlock’s collar with a healing cream. “What do we tell your mum?”

“If she notices,” Sherlock smiled sadly. “We can tell her I pissed someone off and they punched me. That’s believable enough.”

John didn’t say anything, just gently bandaged Sherlock’s wrist, pressing small kisses to the raised flesh.

“I love you,” Sherlock said suddenly, and John looked up. “I feel like I don’t tell you that enough.

“There was this moment, when I thought Moriarty was going to kill me, and I just thought-“ Sherlock closed his eyes, breathing out through his mouth, “Did I tell John I loved him today? And I couldn’t remember.”

Suddenly Sherlock was pressed up against the toilet back, a John in his arms. Utterly shocked, he looked down to see John holding onto his waist, still kneeling on the floor, positively shaking.

“I was so scared,” he choked out. “I couldn’t find you and I-“

“Hush,” Sherlock eased, running his fingers through John’s hair soothingly. “I’m alright. We’re both okay.”

John sat up and kissed him, so surely and strongly, Sherlock felt it in his bones. He ran his tongue lightly against the younger boy’s, gently remembering his mouth, committing it to memory.

“This is nuts,” he said against Sherlock’s mouths. “We’re teenagers. I shouldn’t love you like this, like you’re _part_ of me-“

“You are utterly ridiculous,” Sherlock laughed against him.

John looked up at him, locking him in. “Take me to bed,” he ordered, voice low.

Sherlock swallowed. “You mean-“

“I want you to fuck me,” John said softly, utterly innocent and pure and Sherlock felt his stomach turn over.

“Yes sir,” he whispered and, hand in hand, they walked off to bed.

 


	13. Send me Off

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey loves, I did warn you about the delay. Now, I don't wanna any complaints- I'm posting this in a hotel on holiday. Feel my love for you guys.

On the night of the 28th, Victoria Holmes made good on her threat to throw John a party.

The garden was draped in lanterns and flower leis and a table was set up just big enough for the six of them. A piano and violin stand were set in the corner with obvious intentions and the whole place seemed to glow in the twilight with an almost fairy light.

The two families sat around the table, laughing and eating the various courses the waiters brought out to the garden château. John and Sherlock sat next to each other, holding hands beneath the table cloth, and Sherlock had hooked his ankle around John’s, keeping him warm.

“Did I ever tell you the story of how Vivi and I met?” Cynthia Watson asked over her red wine and Sherlock noticed Mycroft start to color. Suddenly, he was _very_ interested.

“I wanna hear,” Harry asked, also noticing Mycroft’s change of face and he shot her a murderous glare.

Cynthia leaned back in her chair and smiled. “You’re rather the star of the story, Harry,” she reminded her daughter and Harry suddenly backed down, looking the other way.

“In fact,” Victoria pointed out, looking at Cynthia, “the only person technically not present was Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked disgruntled. “Well then, I suppose it’s up to me to request the story,” he sighed and Cynthia laughed.

“No need to get so excited, Sherlock,” Cynthia smiled at him and he spared her a fond look. “I’ll tell it anyway.

“Harry, you were going on two at the time,” Cynthia started and John leaned forward, interested. “We were in Regent’s Park; I had you in a stroller. You were a rather adorable baby, you know. All brown curls-“

“Mum,” Harry groaned and Cynthia relented.

“Alright, alright,” she backed off and the table laughed. “Anyway, there we were, when this lovely looking woman and her own son, just turned three, walked by,” she said, glancing at Mycroft who remained silent.

“I was moving to sit on the bench, as was she,” Cynthia said. “I offered her the bench and she was about to offer it right back when her little son looked at her and said, ‘Mummy, you should let her sit. She’s pregnant.’”

Mycroft turned red as the table burst out laughing, Harry kneading Mycroft in the side.

“I was horrified, of course,” Cynthia added. “Mind you, I’d thought I’d gotten off all the baby weight from Harry. And here a little boy was calling me fat!”

“Takes one to know one,” Sherlock mumbled to John, who bit back a laugh, as Victoria took over.

“Naturally, I was mortified,” Victoria said, smiling fondly at Cynthia. “I apologized profusely on Mycroft’s behalf.”

“And then she took me to coffee,” Cynthia chimed in. “We compared war stories.”

“I gave her my number to stay in touch, and she did,” Victoria squeezed Cynthia’s hand, and the two friends grinned at each other, for a moment still young mothers in their twenties.

Cynthia turned back to the table and finished. “Of course, that week I took a pregnancy test and found out I really _was_ pregnant,” she laughed and it was John’s turn to blush. “So in reality, it was Mycroft who deduced your birth, Johnny.”

John shot Mycroft a glare. “Thanks a lot, mate,” he grumbled and Mycroft smiled good-naturedly back.

“Bloody prat, meeting you before me,” Sherlock griped in John’s ear and the older boy just squeezed his hand under the table.

The night seemed to stretch on till forever, suspended in a world where John was not leaving tomorrow, trapped in minutes stuck in time. The sun set and the stars came out but still, it was not night because night meant morning. And morning meant a military base miles away.

“Mycroft, Sherlock,” Victoria summoned and her two boys looked to her. “Why don’t you play something for us?”

The brothers glanced at each other in silent conversation before getting up and finding their respective instruments. There was a moment of pure tension as Mycroft looked up from the piano and Sherlock looked over his violin and then they began to play.

John wasn’t sure _what_ they played, but it was absolutely beautiful. Mycroft played notes grounded and strong, unwavering and brave and unerringly patient as Sherlock’s notes danced around them in flights of fancy, passion and crazed brilliance.

They crashed, like waves against a rock, and pulled back to flow, side by side. They wrapped around each other like silk on cotton and John suddenly got it. Watsons and Holmes, of all generations and all centuries, all walked of life. Geniuses grounded by goodness. Patience rewarded with flashes of brilliance. And John’s heart hurt.

The piece ended, both parts cut off in the same instant. _A promise_ , John thought and then thought nothing else as he stood up and applauded. The table burst into applause as the brothers set down their instruments and bowed, a tip of their heads, but John was already striding over to Sherlock.

“Did you write that?” he asked the taller boy, looking up with stars in his ocean eyes.

Sherlock looked down. “We’re perfect for each other, you and I,” he said in lieu of an answer and John reached up to grab Sherlock by the neck and kiss him.

It was the sweetest kiss the boys had ever shared, filled with nothing but unshaking devotion and Sherlock set down his violin to bring both his hands to John’s waist, tilting his head to kiss the older boy properly.

It took John a second to realize the silence that engulfed them was not simply his own mind tuning out the world, but the veritable silence that had descended over the garden at their kiss. Cautiously, he pulled back, hands still around Sherlock’s neck, and suddenly remembered that absolutely no one present had seen them kiss before.

Cynthia’s eyes held tears and John’s heart stopped for a second until he realized she was smiling, crying softly that her son had found someone to love. But Victoria’s face was unreadable, and Sherlock stared at her, hands clutching nervously at John.

“Mummy-“ he tried, but there was nothing the genius could think to say. Victoria didn’t need much anyway.

“Well, alright then,” she said briskly and Sherlock could have cried in relief on John’s shoulder.

“Mummy-“ Mycroft started suddenly, stepping forward, and all eyes swiveled towards him.

“You too?” Victoria said in the voice John called _Holmes yelling_ , which was slightly above normal volume. “This is karma for your father, I’ll tell you right now. The man was a homophobe, so what should the universe give him but two gay sons.”

Both brothers looked at each other, unsure if a joke lay somewhere in there, when Victoria added,

“You do realize this does not excuse you from giving me grandchildren,” and the Holmes boys laughed, Sherlock letting go of John to join Mycroft in hugging their mother, the strangest sight John had ever seen.

The hug lasted maybe four seconds before all three parties cleared their throats and went their separate ways. Mycroft went back to Harry, who hugged him tightly and murmured soft words of praise, and Sherlock had just rejoined John when Victoria snapped her fingers and two waiters walked out, picked up the instruments, and began playing.

“May I have this dance?” Sherlock whispered in John’s ear, his hot breath making the words far more sexual than they were already, and John shivered.

“Ye-yeah,” he stuttered and Sherlock took John by the waist, twirling him around the garden turned dance floor as Tchaikovsky played.

“You look radiant tonight,” Sherlock praised as they spun circles, music twirling around them.

John looked at him skeptically. “Are you trying to seduce me, Sherlock?” he asked.

Sherlock bent down to bite at John’s ear and the boy held back a moan. “Is it working?” he asked, licking the inner shell.

“Irrelevant,” John shot back and Sherlock beamed at him in utter surprise at the use of his favorite word. “You hardly need to seduce me. I love you.”

He said it so casually and easily, that although he’d heard it a thousand times, it stopped Sherlock’s heart all the same. “Indulge me,” he asked and John grinned up at him, desire hiding behind his ocean eyes.

“Very well,” he offered cheekily. “Do your worst.”

Sherlock twirled him to the music, stooping down to whisper. “The first time I saw you, I was sure I’d never seen eyes as beautiful as yours. Like oceans,” he confessed and John smiled at him softly.

“Not bad,” he joked but Sherlock wasn’t done.

“I wanted you from that first day,” he said, locking eyes- grey on blue. “I used to dream about you, just next door from me, about your eyes and your chest and your mouth.”

John’s ears tipped red and it didn’t take a genius to realize Sherlock’s plan was working. But he was rather speaking from the heart.

“I wanted you so much, it hurt,” he said and John squeezed his hand, “like a rope twisting inside of me. And when we finally kissed-“

He drew in a shuddering breath and then the music slowed. Wordlessly, he dipped John, the blonde’s head inches from the floor, and he leaned over to whisper in his ear,

“You were my first kiss. And, I hope, my last.”

They straightened and John grabbed at his hands, eyes darkening with arousal. “Let’s go,” he ordered, and wordlessly they left the party, unnoticed by their mums and siblings.

The run to the lake was so heartbreakingly engraved in the soles of their feet it took them only minutes, crashing down on the very spot John had first asked Sherlock to the party that had started it all. They were on the ground only seconds before John rolled on top of Sherlock, straddling him tightly between his thighs.

“You are, by far, the best thing to ever happen to me,” John told him, working frantically at his buttons as their mouths collided. It was an instant scrape of tongue, heatedly begging for more pressure, more contact, more more _more._

“I never said ‘I love you’ before you,” Sherlock confessed, trying valiantly to yank John’s tee off before the boy finally reached down to pull it off himself, tossing it somewhere in the grass.

“Sherlock-“ John gasped and Sherlock’s hands splayed across his naked chest, pinching his nipples until their hardened under his fingertips, rolling them until John moaned, loud and unheard in the dense trees.

“Sherlock, I want you-“ John tried to choke out and was cut off as he moaned again, Sherlock’s talented fingers, _violinist fingers_ , leaving scratches on his back and sides, a mix of pain and pleasure. “I want you inside of me,” John finally got out, trying to finish Sherlock’s shirt. “I want to remember how you feel- _oh_ ” he groaned at Sherlock caught up his hands and took his two fingers in his mouth, sucking and twirling around them with his tongue obscenely.

“ _Fuck_ ,” John cursed, head lolling back as Sherlock’s tongue sent sparks straight to his cock. “Fuck, baby, where did you learn that?”

Sherlock opened his eyes long enough to gaze at John in heavy-lidded arousal. “Your book,” he laughed and then sat up, stripping off his shirt to lay back down, exposed from the waist up.

“Everything-“ John begged, pulling at his trousers. “Take everything off. I want to see you- want to fucking _memorize_ you-“

Sherlock moved his hands down to help John, tugging his trousers and his pants off to leave him naked in the dewy grass, naked and utterly unashamed. What was there to be ashamed of? John loved him.

John ran his hands reverently over Sherlock’s chest and the pace suddenly slowed, pausing down to a slow heavy state of bliss, as John’s hands catalogued every part of him, from his ribs to his arms, to the soft hair that trailed down to his groin.

He ran his hands through the hair between the younger boy’s thighs and rubbed at his hipbones like lucky pennies, committing their feel to memory.

“I want a picture of you like this,” John murmured, leaning down to trail kisses from Sherlock’s ribs to his waist, pausing to swirl his tongue in Sherlock’s navel as the boy gasped and arched up in pleasure. “Open, pure, and _mine._ ”

Sherlock reached his hands up, fingers coming to rest against John’s cheeks, thumbs caressing his jaw. “I will still be yours when you come back,” he promised, the moment so pure it hardly felt sexual.

John kissed him, memorizing his mouth, tongue tracing his gums and teeth, drawing Sherlock’s tongue into his mouth to suck it like a cock, Sherlock groaned against him, hips snapping up to roll obscenely against John’s jeans, the friction becoming almost painful.

“Let me-“ John asked, reaching up to pull down his jeans, and Sherlock’s hands stopped him, drawing down John’s trousers slowly, letting them scrape against the older boy’s erection as he moaned. He pulled off his pants, tossing them with the other clothes, before pausing.

“We don’t have-“ he started but John snapped at him, cock practically leaking.

“Let it hurt,” he begged, throat raspy, and Sherlock had never been more turned on. “I want it to hurt, I want to remember it forever-“

Sherlock hooked his leg around John’s and flipped them over, landing John on his back with a soft “Oomph,” and a quick kiss.

“No,” he said and John looked at him in surprise as he bent down and slowly ran his tongue over John’s hole.

“Fucking hell,” John cursed, pushing into Sherlock’s tongue, as the younger boy did his best to slick the area, tongue sliding in and out to taste John, a strange combination of sweat and honey.

They had done this once before, and Sherlock tried to remember everything John had patiently instructed him to do, sticking in one finger to join his tongue. John whimpered, pushing against him, and Sherlock, with a surgeon’s accuracy, found the prostate.

“ _Christ_ , oh god Sherlock,” John moaned, losing all sense as Sherlock shamelessly rubbed the small bundle of nerves, using the distraction to slip in two fingers, scissoring the older boy open.

“I love when you say my name,” Sherlock confessed, taking over, and John was torn between bursting with pride at how far Sherlock had come, and coming right then and there. “I want to remember it, play it back every night your gone and I have to ease the ache-“

“Now Sherlock,” John commanded, grabbing Sherlock’s hips, and tossing one of his own legs over the boy’s shoulder. “Now, before I-“

And then Sherlock kissed him, working at his bottom lip, kneading it raw. He trailed kisses down John’s jaw and neck, nuzzling him shamelessly, and John keened. Sherlock bit down on the juncture between John’s shoulder and neck as he slid into him and everything went white.

“Fuck!” screamed John, because Christ it _hurt_ , as much as Sherlock had tried to slick him open and Sherlock kissed him messily.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he murmured against John’s mouth, trying to soothe him, but John didn’t care.

He pulled Sherlock down into him, fingers digging into sharp hipbones. “Move,” he ordered and Sherlock kissed his knee before slowly rocking in, drawing out and easing back in in slow, lazy motions.

“I want you to remember this,” Sherlock asked as John whimpered. The boy’s eidetic memory was paying off as he hit John’s prostate every time, the angle mapped out like geography in his head. “When you lie beneath the open afghan sky and burrow beneath hot sand, remember the feel of me, inside of you.”

“Everyone’s gonna think I’m a pervert when I get a hard-on from fucking _sand_ ,” John groaned, smiling up at Sherlock and the younger boy grinned back, a soft haziness filling the air around them.

He wanted it to never end, to stay safely nestled inside John for the rest of his life, blanketed in the kind of cocoon only loving sex can weave. But all good things must end, even acts of utter union, and Sherlock could feel himself unraveling at the seams, deep inside the one boy he’d ever loved.

“I am yours,” he whispered, inches from climax, and he realized what this was, what they were doing, and he wouldn't stop it for the world.

“And I am yours,” John whispered back, as Sherlock reached down between them the stroke John off, long, languid strokes meant to pull him closer.

“Till death do us part,” Sherlock promised and nothing, nothing, was more serious in that moment.

“Amen,” John smiled softly and then Sherlock was falling apart, breaking into tiny pieces and shattering across the sky like a shooting star, blazing and extinguishing in an epicenter of love.

John shuddered around him, never closing his eyes, and Sherlock could see the very moment he collapsed inward, and imprinted it in his mind, pasted it on every wall of his mind palace, nailed it to the door as his own personal thesis.

They cleaned up silently, dipping into the lake to wash each other with gentle hands, and then they climb out shivering, clinging to each other for warmth. They curled up in the summer grass, wrapped up entirely in each other, lying beneath stars.

“You’ll see the stars three hours before me,” John murmured against Sherlock’s temple, “Send me messages on them.”

“It’d be much more logical for me to just call you,” Sherlock muttered back and John laughed, soft vibrations beneath Sherlock’s back.

They stayed up the whole night, talking quietly to each other at times, holding each other silently at others. John told him about his father, the first time he hit him and Sherlock told him about the first time someone called him freak and he’d cried.

They went over each other’s scars, whispering origin stories _fell from a roof, hit by a bicycle, stepped on a nail._ They imagined their flat in London, with a wide area for lab experiments and an extensive laboratory. They didn’t have sex again because this wasn’t a marathon of sensations, it was a marathon of connections and they were connecting just fine.

As the sun came up and kissed their still-bare skin, they dressed each other, pulling up jeans and buttoning shirts. And then, hand in hand, they _walked_ back to the house. They were tired of running.

John’s bags sat like a taunt in the front hall and Sherlock watched him swing it over his shoulder, holding his own hands to keep from lashing out and grabbing it, throwing it across the room.

Cynthia and Harry were going with John, driving him to base, and as they loaded up the car, Sherlock felt like a failure. Harry and Mycroft hugged, and Cynthia and Victoria held hands. But John and Sherlock were passed all that.

Sherlock folded into John like a piece of paper, weightless and boneless, begging to be absorbed. He didn’t ask John to stay, John deserved to be happy. But that was all he _wanted_ to say, and so he kept his mouth shut rather than say the wrong thing.

“Ask it,” John whispered and Sherlock wondered how this utterly average boy could read him like an open book.

“What if you die?” Sherlock asked and John kissed him temple.

“Death cannot stop true love,” he quoted, holding Sherlock close. “All ir can do is delay it for a while.”

They all hugged, as one group, and Sherlock realized that was the first time in years he had ever hugged his brother. _We fixed each other_ and it hit him like a shock of lightening. Broken people are rather meant to fix each other, because if the other person is missing pieces, they can fill them in with some of their own in a collage of something monstrous and workable called love.

And then John was gone in a haze of tires and asphalt and the rope inside of Sherlock coiled so tightly he couldn’t breathe and he sunk to the ground.

“I will never love another,” he whispered and Mycroft came over to lay one, calming hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck.

“Quite lucky you’ll never have to,” he said and he helped his brother off the dusty ground, leading him silently into the house.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We did it! 13 beautiful chapters :) And yes, I quoted Princess Bride (best movie ever)  
> The epilogue will be up soon and that will be loooong, so stay tuned. I also wanna do a little Mystrade vignette based off the series so if you have any interest in that, let me know. As always, I live for your hugs. None of this would have happened without all of your lovely comments, kudos, and kisses across sea. See you soon  
> XOXOXO  
> \- Shay


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